Mothers of the Caribbean
by A Magnificent Garden Party
Summary: We're having a magnificent garden party and you're invited! This is a Broken Compass forum project, consisting of one-shots, each by a different author about a different character, all inspired by the mothers of our beloved pirate rogues.
1. AnaMaria's Mum

**A/N****: This is going to be a collaborative piece written by the members of the Broken Compass Forum. Every "chapter" is about a different character, and written by a different author. So, if you wish to leave feedback, indicate which author you're leaving feedback for! **

**Also, check out our profile page for upcoming chapters!**

**Enjoy!  
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**Written By: **_Hurricane1714_**  
Beta: **_ChaosandMayhem_

_**Bittersweet**_

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My name is Lacy. For 'bout twenty six years, give or take, I've been worried about my daughter, Ana Maria. Then again, I suppose it's natural for a mother to worry about her child. Right now I'm worried she's a slave again, dead or some other fate neither of us wanted has come upon her.

I keep tellin' myself, '_She's been gone for ten years and she ain't ever comin' back_.'

It doesn't stop me from missin' and worryin' 'bout her.

I can still remember the day I figured I was carryin' her, as though it was yesterday. I think I was about seventeen or eighteen then. Me, my husband Danny, my sisters Annie and Beth, my brother Paul and most of our friends were taken from the sugar plantation we had been workin' at and taken to the nearby town. There, we each took our turn on a wooden platform. White men placed bids on us. I watched my loved ones sold to different masters, with the exception of Paul and Beth. They were lucky enough to be sold to the same man. I was last.

After a long bidding process, I was sold to a man named Mathew Lee. When I got to my new plantation home, night was falling. A woman named Mary led me to the cabin I was to share with her and her large family. She gave the feeling of a woman who loved all.

"What's Mister Lee like?" I asked as we walked over to the cluster of log cabins where us slaves lived.

"'E's fair enough," said Mary. "Lets us marry and have church services, but 'e'll beat you if he thinks you're bein' lazy or disrespectful."

I nodded. Mister Lee didn't seem too bad.

"Here's our cabin," said Mary. It was crowded. It felt like a blur as I was introduced to Mary's husband and her five children.

That night, I lay on my straw mattress, trying not to think about the family I had left behind. I told myself the stories my mother told me, the ones her mother told her when she was a little girl, somewhere in Africa. I counted the scars on my hands. Then I remembered. Well, I remembered I had forgotten somethin'. When I had my monthlies last? About two full moons ago. How could I have forgotten?

I sat up, shocked at my finding. Did this mean I was could be expecting Johnny's baby? Or was I just barren? Slowly I lay back down. Against my will, I started to cry. How could I be given such a wonderful blessin' on such a horrible day? If the blessin' was even real.

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Nine months later, I gave birth to the most beautiful baby I had ever laid my eyes on, I swear to the Lord Jesus. She had big brown eyes, silky back hair, a button nose and chubby cheeks. I christened her Ana Maria, after my sister and the woman who had helped me so much.

The years flew by much to fast for my likin'. She grew up into a free-spirited, stubborn, clever girl. A bit to smart, high and mighty for her own good, that's what most of the people who knew her said. Her stubbornness had earned her a lot of beatings.

As for my self, I married the plantation blacksmith, Henry. We had two boys together, Jimmy and George. We were as happy as it was possible to be happy.

Then, when Ana Maria was around sixteen or seventeen years of age, that fool, Jack Sparrow, came along.

He was a captain of an EITC ship called _The Wicked Wench_. She'd been damaged in a storm and had made port in the nearby town for repairs. He was handsome, with a quick tongue and, most importantly, single. Came around the plantation 'bout once every seven days to talk. Said he was interesting company. He told stories about himself. Most of them involved him battling sirens, ghosts, gods or some other hocus pocus and him triumphantly winning over them, saving the day, getting the treasure or a mix of the three.

His charm and love of life resulted in the feeling of a party whenever he came over to talk. All the girls fell under the spell of his dashing looks and his witty stories. They giggled when ever he spoke, watched his every move and made sure they looked nice when he came over. Even Ana Maria fell for that fool. Although, I'm proud she disguised her feelings better than the other girls.

Unfortunately, Sparrow and Ana became friends. More than once I saw them sittin' together, talkin' about freedom, liberty and other claptrap.

One night, Ana asked me for a private word. We went outside the cabin.

"Jack wants me to run off with him," said Ana, not meeting my eyes.

I stared at her, shocked. "Are you serious, child?"

She nodded.

"Are you goin' to go?" Daft question. Who wouldn't take this opportunity?

She nodded again.

"What are you plannin' to do?"

"Join the crew of Jack's ship, disguised as a boy."

"Sparrow is gonna break your heart," I warned.

"If he does, I'll hunt him down and break his face," she said.

I wanted to be selfish. I wanted to threaten to tell Mister Lee. I couldn't let her go. She was my only girl. I needed her. But I had to let her go. Like I said before, it would be selfish and this would most likely be the best thing that ever happened to her.

Besides, as the late Mary (May she rest in peace) said, "Children are gonna go, whether they marry, are sold and maybe, if they are lucky, they'll find away to escape. There's nuthin' you can do 'bout it, 'cept give 'em your blessin.'" She was right, as always.

I looked into my baby's eyes. "I hope you realize, that if you go, you can't come back."

"I know, Mama."

I hugged her. "I don't want you to go." I fought the tears that were comin' into my eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said, huggin' me back.

"Don't be sorry, I'd do the same thing if I was you."

"I love you, Mama."

"I love you too, Baby."

She broke the hug and walked off into the night, towards her freedom.

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	2. Hector Barbossa's Mum

**Written by: **_Nytd_**  
Beta: **_FreedomOftheSeas_

**From the West Country**

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The intermittent gusts of autumn wind kept teasing strands of her neatly braided and coiled auburn hair loose, causing them to stream across her face, and provoking her to periodically stop what she was doing as she brushed them away. She'd been at work in the small orchard that overlooked the not so distant sea, gathering up the last apples of the season, late that afternoon.

Beryan Barbossa did her best to ignore the ever more numerous gray hairs that joined the rich auburn ones as she pushed the strands from across her eyes once more, and picked up the basket that she'd laden heavily with shiny green fruit to make her way slowly down the hill towards her small house.

She glanced once at the white capped swells in the distance as she made her way through the short, gnarled, old trees, wondering if blustery fall weather came at that moment only to the coast of Cornwall, or if it came to other places as well- other far off places...places where _he_ might be at that moment.

Was he in the Caribbean still, as he had last said he'd be, or was it some other exotic destination that he sailed to now?

Beryan knew that it was senseless to worry about him...there was naught she could do for him wherever he was, but senseless or not, she fretted because she was his mother.

That was her job as a mother, now wasn't it? To stay at home and fret, to worry, to agonize about his whereabouts and fate thoroughly, so that she might in some way be able to ward off any evil from happening to him if she worried long and hard enough?

If such a thing were indeed possible, no desperate circumstance, no malignant disease, no grievous injury would ever befall him, for she had worried about the possibilities enough that they should find themselves thwarted long before even considering plaguing her only son.

She continued pondering her lot as a mother as she neared the bottom of the gentle slope, and knew rationally that her concern did nothing for him and less for her.

For it had done nothing for her husband of only a brief time, now hadn't it?

Sent away by declining fortune, and called away again by the sea from whence he'd come to her, her husband had never returned, leaving her in circumstances more desperate than when he'd gone, once another Barbossa arrived early that long ago July.

It was the very fact that he had left her upon hard times, whether that had been his intention or not, that had driven her son to go to seek him, and likewise to seek some reason for his mother to have been abandoned.

She had never thought it her husband's intent to leave her behind in poverty; nay, she knew in his heart that he'd meant well, and was determined to provide for her and her unborn son in the only way he knew how. It was this she always reiterated to her son as he grew older and bitter toward his long-absent sire.

It was this she told him, time and time again, and this she stuck by whenever he voiced his doubts, but the single thing she'd never told him, and indeed, never would, was that the only means her long lost husband had of seeking a fortune of any size for them were the means of a _pirate_.

Yes, she knew. He'd never said as much in the very few letters he'd sent, but she'd seen it as plainly as if he'd written it on the page. What was there for it? He was long gone, off to seek their fortune, and pirate or not, she loved him and would still, whether he ever came home or not.

Lost in her thoughts, Beryan made her way across the small yard in which several chickens scratched and a large gray cat lay sprawled in a shaft of fading sunlight, watching her through sleepy lids at half mast as she carried her basket past him.

Was she a bad mother for lying to him? True, it was a lie of omission, rather than one of deceit, but it had only ever been her intention to protect him from the truth. She'd never wanted her son to know...to be disappointed, she'd told herself. To be ashamed of what his father had been, she argued convincingly.

It was to protect him, and perhaps likewise herself, from the fear she could hardly let take the form of a complete thought...that he might be like his father, and that pirating might follow along with possession of the only other thing his father had left him –his name.

A squabble among the chickens disturbed her reverie for a moment, and she stepped deftly through the bickering hens as that line of thought returned.

For all her worrying, fretting and omitting, she knew with greater certainty each time she saw him, that her fears were not unfounded. She said nothing to him, however, as time with him during his brief and far between visits was precious, and she wished none of that time to be spent arguing.

Could a man be a good husband and a pirate? She wondered. For that question she had no answer, as hers had never come back, but she supposed it was possible, for she knew that a man could be a pirate, and yet be a devoted son.

Wherever he roamed, however he obtained them, he always brought her whimsical trinkets and exotic gifts. While she more than suspected that not all of them had found their way into his hands by the most conventional means, she nonetheless loved every one of them.

She knew she shouldn't, and she should have told him long ago of her disapproval of his lifestyle, but the fact of the matter was that each gift was still precious to her when he placed it in her hands, for it told her that no matter where he'd been, no matter how long he'd been away, that he'd been thinking of her.

That had been obvious as well, with the fact that each time he left her, a substantial amount of money, also of dubious origin she knew, remained behind on the table; a way for a pirate to still be a dutiful son and see to his mother's needs the best he could while absent so much of the time.

She felt guilty taking it at first, but with little means to support herself other than the sewing and cleaning she did for residents of the village of Padstow, she would surely have fallen into great poverty had it not been for his efforts. He'd seen to it, first and foremost from the time he came home from his very first voyage, that she was taken care of, and it had been years since she had wanted for much.

Beryan adjusted her grip on the basket she carried, hurrying across the remaining distance to the house as another strong gust of cold wind swept past, tugging once more at her skirt and her hair. She was again brushing stray hair out of her clear blue eyes, when at that moment she realized that she was being watched by eyes that she knew precisely matched her own.

Standing in the doorway with his arms folded across his chest and leaning his shoulder against the frame while he watched her with a roguish smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, was the young man she'd been thinking of so much that afternoon.

She stopped where she was, her free hand flying to her mouth to cover the gasp of surprise that had escaped, and tears of happiness springing forth but a moment later. Overcome with emotion at seeing him, and especially seeing that he was well, she stood where she was as he leaned off the doorway and crossed the few feet that remained between them.

She had to look up for her gaze to meet his, as he now stood nearly a head taller than she did, as had his father. His auburn hair, a shade darker than her own, was longer than when she'd last seen him, and she was pretty certain she didn't want to know just what it was that hung from his earlobe now.

Unable to contain her joy any longer, she flung her arms about him, saying nothing as she embraced him fiercely, and she rested her head against his shoulder for a long minute while he held her tightly. She clung to him, thinking she never wanted to let him go again, until at last her thoughts were interrupted by a _crunch_, and she stepped back a pace and shook her head as she smiled at the fact that he'd stolen an apple out of her basket as she'd been hugging him all teary-eyed.

"Hector," she said, scolding him lightly for his theft. He said nothing but took the basket for her, and bent to place a kiss, ever so slightly sticky with apple juice, on her cheek. She shook her head again as he laughed and slipped an arm around her to walk her into the house.

She gazed at him lovingly as he held the door open for her, sighing a little to herself as she realized she should have always known he would end up a pirate like his father.

In addition to the apple and whatever it was that he likely carried in his coat pocket for her this time, she knew that there was one other thing that he'd stolen.

Nineteen years ago, during that faraway July, after just one look at her only son, he'd stolen her heart for good.

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**A/N:** Beryan is an archaic name from the region of Cornwall, also known as the West Country. Some of you will recognize her character from _Naught but a Humble Pirate_.

Cheerfully beta'd by FreedomOftheSeas

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_If you'd like to read other fics written by Nytd, check out her profile page!_


	3. Cutler Beckett's Mum

**Written by**: _Damsel-in-stress_  
**Beta**: _Nytd_

_**My Beautiful Little Accident **_

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The child looked so small and helpless, a beautiful baby boy with a sunny laugh and an enchanting smile. It was inconceivable that anything bad could come from such an innocent infant, and yet everything that went wrong in my life came from that baby.

Nine months ago I could never have guessed at the turn of events my life would take. I was barely out into society, a bright, vivacious teen with an almost improper sense of fun.

_He _took that all away from me.

It was New Years Eve when I first met him, at a party in his father's house.

I had bounced into the room; my low cut green dress almost luminescent in the gloom, where I'd been led around by my grinning mother, who made no secret of her pleasure at how I had taken to society and how it had taken to me.

She had always groomed me, taking me to parties, introducing me to rich and important people and for a time I thought that was for my own benefit, but I would soon realise how she was using me.

This time was no different.

"Mr Beckett," she'd gushed, "let me introduce you to my daughter Helen."

Henry Beckett had bowed stiffly, looking at from my silk clad feet to my plunging neckline with faint disgust. Disgust and perhaps fear.

I smiled prettily, as it was expected of me, then curtsied low, giving him the full and complete view of my ample chest. I was a well-endowed young lady and not afraid to show it off. Perhaps I should be ashamed, but looking back, I just wished it had been someone, anyone, else that I'd been baiting.

"So nice to meet you," I said, fluttering my eyelashes.

A muscle twitched in Mr. Beckett's cheek but outwardly he kept his composure.

"Nice to meet you," he replied emotionlessly.

He was so colourless that I bored of him almost immediately, turning away to join the party. Little did I know what an effect I'd had on Henry and how he watched me for the rest of the night.

I assure you, it was hardly even a one-night stand.

It was just a fleeting impulse of mine; I admit I had several in my young life, but Henry thought so much more of it.

He was a very devout man, only a few months my senior, but already he seemed so much older. He was dull and lifeless most of the time, but suddenly he could be seized by fits of passion normally involving his religion. Sin often featured largely in his speeches to me. Usually my sin.

But as I said before, I am not ashamed.

Henry though, seemed furiously guilty with himself at his weakness, regretting the act almost while he had performed it.

Afterwards I wanted to simply forget about it, but he seemed plagued by guilt, and anyway our little fling had far reaching consequences no one could have guessed at.

God must have a sense of humour, I thought bitterly.

Now I looked at my baby, my beautiful little accident and stroked his brow. I wonder if he realised how unwanted he was, unwanted but definitely not unloved. I wouldn't change him for the world.

He gurgled in his sleep, perfectly comfortable and content. I looked at his angelic face and tried to see any of his father in him. There was nothing and I thanked God each day for that.

I would do everything in my power to keep my child from becoming the grasping, emotionless beast his father was.

Today is our anniversary, you know, a whole year since that farcical wedding.

We'd stood side by side at the altar, so close we were almost touching, but I could see Henry leaning away from me the whole time. I almost wanted to laugh.

I knew I repulsed Henry. He blamed me for his 'weakness' and was scared of me. I knew he hated me for what would have been his illegitimate child.

I still didn't see what bothered everyone so much about that. I could have lived with it. People would have talked, a single woman with a baby - _scandalous_, but I would have survived it.

It wouldn't have killed me. Marriage to Beckett may yet.

I remember when I told my mother about the child. She had wept, screaming at me for ruining all her work. I would _never_ make a decent marriage now.

Then I told her it was Henry's and she could hardly contain her glee.

Together she and the remorse racked Beckett planned the wedding to save our reputations.

I had no idea what I was getting myself into when I'd stood by the altar with my swelled stomach cleverly concealed under my frilly white dress and had said my vows.

A feeling of doom crept over me as I promised myself to my dull, bitter husband, and little did I know how well founded that feeling was.

There were to be no more parties.

No more fun and dancing, no more music and laughter.

Colourless Beckett doused the fire of my youth and kept me locked in the marble floored, gold curtained cage that was his home.

I hated it. It felt like prison.

My husband said it was for my own good, that in my delicate condition I should be kept inside.

He sounded like _such_ a loving husband.

It all sounded so good, you see, rich Beckett and his beautiful young wife with a baby on the way - it was the perfect situation.

Funny how deceiving appearances could be.

I wonder if my baby knew what a tremulous household he was born into, how unpredictable his childhood was going to be, how unlikely that it would be wholly happy.

Somehow I think he did because as I sat there contemplating my little child, my little Cutler Beckett, he looked back at me with troubled eyes.

Then he started to cry.

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	4. Capitaine Chevalle's Mum

**Written by: **_Belphegor_**  
Beta**: _FreedomOftheSeas_

_**La Marseillaise**_

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Augustine Marie de la Tour du Pin (_née_ Augustina Maria Pierlunghi) had always been something of a curiosity in Marseilles, the city she had made hers over the years. For one thing, she was famous – even infamous – for being prone to wild rages and equally loud joys, which every single new denizen of the docks area quickly came to know about.

There was also the way she dressed. Watching her as she strode down the street, all flying ribbons and fabrics dyed in every colour available was quite the experience in a city where women traditionally – especially the widows' clan, which she happened to be a part of – never left the severe black garments they wore to go outside their homes.

But what was most particular about the woman – what was most passionately discussed on the square benches under the shade after Sunday mass – was the well-known fact that she was in league with the most prominent pirate society in the whole region. Not much was actually clear about this, but it was widely acknowledged that at least some of her offspring had a reputation that rivalled the best _naufrageurs_ of the Atlantic coast – and even the likes of François l'Olonnais' and la Buse's, whom the Marseillais had heard of in spite of the distance. Living in a harbour meant that news traveled faster than inland, anyway.

Her husband, the late Marquis de la Tour du Pin, must be having a very entertaining time rolling in his grave were he to know about it, but the fact remained that to be able to make ends meet, the impoverished Marquise had made some interesting investments.

So, it would not come as a surprise if you were to tell someone in Marseilles that you happened to see a tall, gangly and somewhat unsavoury fellow (in spite of his faded and frayed but still stylish long coat and wig) sneaking in the dead of night into Mrs de la Tour du Pin's house.

Which was precisely happening right now.

The man, whose face was hidden in the shadow of his large feathered hat, avoided the big entrance and went round the back of the old two-story house with the confident step of a familiar.

Augustine was waiting for him in the foyer, fully dressed, a candlestick in her hand. Without a word, she engulfed him into a vigorous one-armed embrace that knocked the breath right out of his lungs.

"Good evening, Mère," he said when he was sure his voice wouldn't come out as a breathless squeak.

She detached herself from him and took a step back, eying him critically.

"Thin as a rack, as usual – not that the gaol's been helping any, right? If I ever was to lay my hands on those filthy English pigs - I'd gut them, I'd knock their teeth out and make them swallow, I'd –"

The man took out his hat and followed his mother to the kitchen, where she took some dried meat from the larder, a couple of hard-boiled eggs and a loaf of bread, without stopping her ranting and raving even to breathe.

"Eat! And drink," she added, putting a jug and two drinking cups on the table and drawing a chair next to his. "We'll talk after."

When he had eaten and drunk his fill, he pushed his cup away. Augustine needed no other sign to start firing a volley of questions, some of which came out mangled by her still-prominent Neapolitan accent.

"What happened? What's the situation in the Caribbean? How'd you get caught? How did you get off, for that matter?"

"That is a lot of questions at once, Mère," he said with a dry smile. "Pick a first if you really want me to answer."

"Don't get ironic with me, Mister," she snapped, taking a swig out of her own cup. "I'm still your mother; this rubbish will never work on me. Tell me how they caught you, for starters."

The man shifted slightly on his chair somewhat awkwardly. Being put to the question by one's own mother at forty plus years old has great potential for discomfort.

"In the most embarrassing manner, of course. Quite rude, too. I was just leaving Saint Domingue where I'd been conducting some … _business_ and they just collected me there. They'd been hiding in a creek on the Spanish side of the island, of all places.

"How many?"

"A sloop and a frigate. EITC, both." His cheeks flushed red under the powder. "I've been captured by the French, the British and even the Spaniards over the years – but I never _dreamed_ I would be taken prisoner by a ragtag shopkeepers' army!"

The Marquise nodded and waited without making any comment. When the anger and shame that radiated off him had cooled down a little, he continued.

"Jack Sp – Captain Jack Sparrow contacted me in Port Royal with that blacksmith friend of his, young Turner. Tampered with the rope, blew up the whole powder magazine and smuggled me out of Jamaica through the rumpus. It was too late for Le Cléac'h, though."

He paused, suddenly appearing very interested in the bottom of the empty cup he was idly twiddling with his long thin fingers.

Something twisted grimly in Augustine's face. Her youngest son always took it as a personal offense when he lost some of his crew. The pirates manning the _Fancy_ were no gentilshommes for sure, but they were fine seamen with no more of a taste for blood and carnage than was necessary in their profession. Their captain happened to be particular about that.

"Your cox'n? They hung him?"

"Aye, we were caught together. He was executed two days before I escaped. Not alone, too …"

"What do you mean?"

He filled his cup again and gulped half of the liquid before answering. "There were others on the gallows with him that day. Three men, plus a skinny lad who couldn't have been a day older than sixteen. I'll be damned if one of them ever set foot on a pirate ship before. They'd just been rounding up people at random, Mère."

This time, it was her turn to fill her cup and take a hearty swig. Her hand was imperceptibly shaking when she put it down and stated, jaw clenched. "It's begun, then."

"En effet. That's the very reason Sparrow sprung me out of gaol in Port Royal. I don't know what he's up to, but something tells me that with Barbossa gone and me owing him a life debt, whatever he's plotting stands some chance of succeeding."

The old Marquise gave a brief, dry smile. "So, you're headed for Shipwreck Cove now, aren't you?"

"As soon as I can gather my crew. Where's my ship?"

Her smile became a smirk of the famous 'I-know-more-than-you-do' kind.

"Sent word with that Basque blighter of yours who has that jaw-breaker of a name."

"Etxegarai?"

"Right, him. The _Fancy_ and your crew are waiting for you in the little creek near the calanques of Sormiou. You know, the one where you like to moor whenever you feel like sneaking into civilised country to see your mother." She gave a smug sniff, never one for false modesty. "Told them to have supplies ready for a long voyage, too."

He gave a broad smile and – ever the gentleman – rose from his chair to take Augustine's wrinkled hand and kiss the back of it.

"Thank you, Mère. You are fantastic."

"And well aware of that fact. Aren't you staying the night?" she added, seeing him adjust his wig and button up his frock again. He shook his head.

"The sun will rise in an hour or two. I have to go now if I do not want to turn a discreet sortie into a grand last stand."

"Of course." She rose from her chair too, albeit with some difficulty, and thanked him with a clipped smile when he gently took her arm. "After this Brethren business is over, I'd like you to come back and tell me the particulars of what happened. And don't worry too much about being recognized. Here is the last place the King's soldiers would think of searching to find you."

"I did tell you again and again I had good reasons for changing my name."

His smug smile mirrored his mother's earlier smirk. She rolled her eyes and shrugged, the candlestick in her hand swinging dangerously.

"Bien sûr you did, and I'm glad you kept at least the first name I baptized you with but … For Heaven's sake, what kind of ludicrous name is Chevalle?"

This debate was already a quarter of a century old. He let the storm rage, waiting for it to eventually pass over his head.

Before he walked out, he paused on the threshold to say goodbye. His mother's hard blue eyes looked up at him and stopped the casual words in his throat. There was something akin to fear lurking in their depths, and he had never known Augustine de la Tour du Pin to be afraid of anything.

"Be … extra careful," she muttered as she fussed idly with one of the lapels of his overcoat. For some reason, this shook him more than the expression on her face or the sudden hesitation in her voice. She never corrected his clothes, trusting him to look the way he wanted to and to have the good sense to know when 'fancy' became ridiculous. She must really be afraid to forget herself like that.

Dropping his usual pretense at a cool, aloof demeanor he wrapped his arms around her and held her tight.

When had she become so small? The formidable dragon of Marseilles, who whenever she roared, sang and laughed vocalised it throughout the whole city suddenly turned into a frail, petite, _old_ woman, clutching at the only remnant of family she had left and scared to lose him as she had lost the others.

He didn't promise her anything. He never did, anyway. The words would only sound false.

Tonight, though, he felt an overwhelming need to comfort her by saying 'Until I see you again' rather than just 'Adieu'.

"I will do my very best, Maman," he whispered in her white hair.

"The devil you will. You never listen to your mother."

Her eyes were slightly over-bright when she pulled away from the embrace, but their usual steely glint had returned even with a hint of something mischievous in them that her son had come to be wary of over the years.

"Be sure to pass my best regards to Capitán Villanueva," she said with the shadow of a grin. An eye-tooth briefly winked white.

The Capitaine immediately bristled, and judging by the subtly widening smirk making its way amongst the wrinkles of his mother's face, he had fallen right into the trap.

"Mère," he replied, somewhat dryly, "I do wish you'd stop taunting me about that infernal Spaniard heel. Sometimes you give me the unpleasant impression that you actually _enjoyed_ your captivity aboard his ship."

"His behaviour was in every way worthy of a hidalgo – and a gentilhomme as well, since you appear not to accept the fact that they mean the same thing."

"He is a scoundrel and a rascally flat-footed lout. And if he were to add another word on the subject of your person, I should have to trounce him." He set his large hat at a jaunty angle and shot her a haughty, self-satisfied smile that resurrected his father for a second. "Again."

'_And he would have to trounce you as well_,' she didn't say, perfectly confident that he still would get the unspoken message. _Again_.

This time he didn't linger more on the threshold. Instead, he gave an elegant bow – she swatted the annoying feather away from her face with an age-old gesture – and wrapped his coat around himself.

And like _that_ – he was gone.

Augustine Marie de la Tour du Pin tightened her scarf around her shoulders to ward off the cold chill of the night and closed the back door.

Dawn found her still sitting at her kitchen table, staring in front of her while the light of her candles went out. Any witness would not have believed that the loud, fearsome Italian-turned-Marseillaise noblewoman and this subdued, grim-looking thinker was the same person.

When a shaft of feeble light fell on the worn table covered in wax stains in front of her, she rose with a sigh, ignoring the sharp protestations of some of her mutinous bones, and grabbed a quill, an inkpot and a few sheets of paper.

She had a letter to write.

_En honor a la señora Catalina de Villanueva, Barcelona, España_

_Dear Madam,_

_You have never seen me in person and my name would not recall anything for you, but believe me when I say that I have both our sons' best interests at heart in writing to you. Recent developments in the Caribbean have recently come to my attention, as well as disquieting activity on the part of the British EITC. As Pirate Lords, I believe your son and mine are too conscious of their status to even think the word of 'truce', but I have an unmitigated trust in our ability as mothers to be reasonable and rational._

_Perhaps, at least until the end of the Pirate Conclave, we could settle some form of non-aggression arrangement …_

**FIN**

---

**Belphegor A/N**:

:o)

'En effet' here means 'Yes, it has' and 'bien sûr' means 'of course'. 'Mère' is 'mother' (very formal) and 'Maman' is equivalent to 'Mommy/Mummy'. My back story for Augustina is that the Marquis and her were married when she was quite young, and loved each other very much until his death. Then she more or less pushed her kids into pirating :S Of the four children (four sons) they had, only the youngest (our Capitaine) is still alive, the others having been caught and executed or killed in battle.

I do think the Marquise and Doña Catalina will be able to reach agreement concerning a temporary truce between the captains and crews of _Fancy_ and the _Centurión_ :)

I know, there's still tons of stuff that goes unexplained, most of it is comprised of hints to nibbling plot bunnies … I really haven't given those a second thought, the story seemed to write itself at some points, but if someone should pick up the mess of hinted info and make a story out of it, I'd be delighted, lazy arse that I am :D

And … who will first spot the _Usual Suspects_ reference? ;)


	5. Davy Jones' Mum

**Written by**: _Roland Trask_**  
Beta**: _FreedomOftheSeas_

_**She Who Bore the Devil  
**_

---

Catherine stood at her balcony. The twilight was dark and uninviting. Storm clouds marched across the cold gray sky like an invading ethereal army. She shut her eyes and let the frigid sea wind consume her. She knew what was to come, and deeply dreaded it.

A better life awaited her in England. At least that's what she had been lead to believe. She could marry a fine man, live in a fine home, and raise many fine children. She could be happy.  
Catherine O'Connor wanted to be happy. She wanted it more than anything in the world, for her and her son. Sadly, whenever she had to remind herself that her name was no longer O'Connor, that it was Jones, she felt only despair.

Ireland had held nothing for her, only sad memories. Catherine watched her mother and each of her brothers die, and left with nothing, made for a happier life in England. However, she wasn't happy when she became a maid in the wealthy Jones manor, nor was she happy when their youngest son, David, took a fancy to her.

Jones was a wealthy and respectable name in Yorkshire, and the young David was its only mar. He was a drunkard, and a layabout. His family cared little what he did with his life so long as he didn't destroy theirs. If he wished to marry a servant girl, that was his business.

Catherine had no love for David, but no one else in the world had any love for her. And David at least had wealth. He was her chance to survive, and in him, perhaps a chance at happiness.

Fortunes however, did not favor the Joneses.

David's father once brought his family with him to Italy, leaving David behind to "mind the homestead." The truth was simply he didn't want David humiliating the family. On their return voyage, their ship was sacked by pirates. The Joneses were murdered and their vessel sent to the bottom.

With David being the only living heir, the entire Jones fortune became his. Despite the morbid way in which he earned it, Catherine was happy that he had. She knew that one day his family would tire of him, and cast him out in the streets. But now, his inheritance meant their security.

It was not long after the death of the Jones family that Catherine found herself pregnant. The thought of bearing David Jones' child disgusted her. But when he was born, and he opened his eyes to reveal her own bright blue ones staring back at her, she loved him more than she ever thought possible.

His father named him David after himself. Catherine wasn't too pleased by this. She did not want to stain her son's life with the sins of his father. She vowed that she would make him her son, and he would lead the life of happiness he deserved.

Catherine's son would not be David Jones. So, she crafted a new name for him. It wasn't much, but it was not his father's name. She called him Davy.

Every night after Davy's father had drunk himself sleepy and reeled off to bed, Catherine would place her young son in his crib, and lull him to sleep with the music box locket her mother had given her. Its tune was beautiful, but haunting.

Two of them her mother had given her. She told her of the enchanting tune they played and of the Sea Goddess Calypso, whose face was born on each necklace. Her mother's instructions were to keep one always close to her heart, and to give the other to the one she loved most in this world.

She never told David of the lockets.

Every night for ten years she left one next to Davy. Ten years of happiness with her son, and ten years of misery with her husband. She wanted to be happy, and after so long, it was time to make that so.

Echoing through the manor house, she heard it, waking from her deep thoughts - The haunting melody of Calypso. It came not from a locket, but from the grand piano in the parlor. Catherine smiled.

Davy was so talented, and very smart. Perhaps, he could write music someday, and be a grand pianist. However, if Davy was to have and chance at that, Catherine would have to save him from his father.

She made her way inside and down the grand staircase. She saw young Davy sitting at his bench, his fingers flowing across the ivory keys. Catherine approached him and placed a hand in his shoulder. He looked up at her, his blue eyes sparkling, and smiled.

He was a handsome lad, with his long black hair, strong features, and bright smile. He was the spitting image of his father, yet looked nothing like him, for Davy carried himself with pride, strength, and dignity. Something his father had none of.

"You've got talent, Davy," she said to him. "You really do. If you wanted it, the world could be yours."

His smile faltered.

"I don't know if I want the world."

"Than what do you want, Davy?" she asked excitedly. Whatever it was, she would give it to him.

"I just want to be happy. And I want father to…" He bit his lip. "I don't want father to say the things he says. I don't want him to act that way anymore. And… I don't want to be afraid of him."

Catherine frowned. She knelt beside her son and looked into his eyes.

"The world can be harsh, but you can't listen to anyone else. And you must never be afraid. Stand before the Earth and Sea and roar like a lion. Tell them you are Davy Jones, and let them quake before you!"

Davy's face lit up, but then dropped his gaze. She could tell he certainly wanted to challenge the world, but lacked faith in himself. She lowered her eyes to see his locket lying on the bench beside him. Taking it up, she placed it around his neck. "But always, keep me close to your heart, and know that you're my beloved."

She produced the locket she wore.

"For I will do the same."

A clap of thunder and a horse's gallop came from the growing dark. Catherine knew her husband had returned from his evening of drinking and debauchery. It was time to begin.

"Davy, do you remember what we talked about?"

"Yes mother, but why do we…?"

"Don't ask questions. Did you pack your things like I asked?"

"Yes, mother."

"Good. Go up to your room and get ready. We'll be leaving soon."

With wide eyes and quivering hands, Davy hopped off his bench and darted up the stairs.

"Don't be frightened," his mother called to him softly.

Catherine made her way towards the kitchen, where she could smell the hearty meal Mildred was preparing.

Mildred, a short, round faced girl with a warm smile stood by the stove, dropping potato slices into a large boiling pot.

"Good evening, mum," she said cheerily. "I hope ye and young Davy 'ave an appetite. And I hope that it's for roast duck. It's good for what ails ye, or at least that's what me mother used to say. 'Course she also used to say that frog's blood can cure warts, but I think that…"

"That's fine, Mildred," spoke Catherine firmly. "My husband has returned, go and see to him."

"Yes, mum," said Mildred a little taken aback.

Once the maid had left for the entrance hall, Catherine cautiously opened a drawer and picked up a small cutting knife with a sharp edge. Hearing the front door open, she hastily stashed it within the confines of her dress.

"Good evening, sir," said Mildred's with a much less cheery voice. "May I take your coat?"

"Mildred," came the slurred, groggy voice of David Jones. "How are you my dear? How bouts a kiss for master?"

"Your wife is in the kitchen, sir," said Mildred in a quivering but still formal voice.

"Well, the missus can wait. I'm more interested in you."

"David," said Catherine in a loud but calm voice as she stepped into the entrance hall. He looked up.

"Catherine," he mumbled with disdain.

He was a tall, skinny man, with high cheekbones and a hawk like nose. He wore a shabby coat unbecoming of nobleman, a title he hardly deserved. His cold dark eyes leered at his wife.

He lifted his grubby hands form Mildred's collar and removed his tricorne hat.

"What do you want?" he demanded sharply.

"See to dinner, Mildred," said Catherine hurriedly. The maid looked grateful to leave and rushed out.

"We need to speak, David."

"Then speak," he grumbled, not at all interested in what she had to say.

Dropping his coat to the floor, he stumbled past his wife and into the parlor. Opening the glass doors, he made his way onto the terrace, glaring out at the dark sea. Catherine followed him silently.

"This has been a long time coming, David."

"Of course!" he shouted. "The money's all gone and you no longer have need of me. So, you're going to flee."

"This is not about the money, David. The money you never earned and wasted away on drinks and whores. No, David, it's not about that. It's about Davy."

"Davy, is my son, you bloody wench," he said in a low, chilling voice. "Don't ever forget that."

"Your son!" she screamed. "When were you ever a father to him? You've spent your whole life being a bully and a coward."

An ugly scowl forming on his face, David marched forward and brought his hand across her face.

"Hold your tongue! How dare you insult me! You would have nothing without me! You need me!"

Catherine glared at him, her eyes filled with tears of hatred.

"That may have been true once," she said softly, "but not anymore. I needed you and I fooled myself into thinking you needed me, maybe even loved me, but you never did. I was just someone to bully, someone who could make you feel like you were worth a damn, and it's not just me anymore, it's Davy too. He's more of a man than you could ever hope to be. I am ashamed his father had to be you."

David stared at her, rage burning behind his glassy, dark eyes.

"Alright then. You've said your peace. Now I'll say mine."

David violently grabbed her by the arms, digging his yellow nails into her skin. She struggled against him, but he pulled her close until his foul, rum laced breath filled her nostrils.

"You have nowhere to go! Not a soul in this world cares about you. I am the only thing you're got!"

He snatched a handful of her golden hair and tugged hard.

"Davy is my son. I'll teach him that. But first, I'll teach you obedience."

Wrenching her arm free of his grasp, Catherine brought up her hand and raked her fingernails across his face. With a cry of pain, David staggered back holding a bleeding eye.

"You whore!" he screamed. He charged towards her, his hand reaching for her throat, but suddenly, he froze. Knife in hand, Catherine pointed it straight towards his heart.

"We're going," she whispered. "You… can go to Hell."

Catherine backed away into the house and steadily lowered the knife. Shutting the glass door, she bolted the lock, trapping her husband outside.

"Mum, are you alright?" said Mildred, her voice trembling as she appeared next to a large drape with a dim glowing candle. Her eyes were the size of saucers and her skin was deathly pale.

"Everything is fine, Mildred," said Catherine in a steady voice. "Go and prepare the carriage, please."

Mildred stared at her, looking petrified.

"It's alright, Mildred. Go."

"Yes mum," squeaked the maid. She hastily set the candle down on a side table and raced outside.

Catherine stole a glance towards her husband. He lay slumped over the railing, silent tears of agony mixing with his blood. He sobbed in bitter defeat. It gave Catherine a vengeful satisfaction to see him so broken. It was over. She was free.

"Davy!" she called excitedly up the stairs. "Davy, its time! Come on!"

Young Davy Jones raced onto the landing, wearing his coat, tricorne hat, and knapsack slung over his shoulder. He grinned at his mother, and she smiled back.

It was striking how beautiful she looked then, and so happy. It was as if at that moment, Davy was seeing his mother for the first time, but his smile quickly faded.

Why was she holding a knife? And his father… lurching forward, his eye scratched and his face caked with blood.

Davy watched as his father smashed through the door, the broken glass slicing his flesh and clothing. Catching a shard in his hand, he rushed towards his wife. She turned to him, mouth gaping in terror.

The boy's scream caught in his throat as his father grabbed his mother, and plunged the glass shard into her heart.

For that eternity that past in but a moment, Davy locked eyes with his mother. She reached towards her bleeding chest and clenched her fist about her locket as she collapsed to the floor.

Davy was scarcely aware of running down the stairs, but the next thing he knew he was kneeling beside her, staring at the bloodstained locket her lifeless hand.

David Jones gazed upon his wife's body.

"Your mother is dead, son."

Davy looked upon his father, tears streaming from his eyes. For the first time, he saw his father for what he really was. The scarred man loomed over him, his mouth twisted in a fiendish grin.

"Where has she gone, you ask? To Hell. To burn forever in a lake of fire and blood. She was nothing! My whole family was nothing! And now they can all suffer forever!"

David grabbed his son by the collar and pulled him to his feet. Staggering forward, he pushed him towards the wall.

"A cruel fate, I know." he said with a hollow pity. "But life is cruel, why should the afterlife be any different?"

Staring at his father, Davy felt something he never thought he would feel. Something snapped inside young Davy, and all he felt was hate.

"Your mother was the greatest mistake I ever made. Now… I think its time I rid myself of all my mistakes."

David's bloody hands slowly wrapped around his son's throat, his crazed and evil eyes meeting Davy's.

"Do you fear death?"

His father's grotesque face twisted from its sick joy to blinding agony. He loosed Davy's neck and threw his arms out in pain. As he collapsed onto the side table, he turned to reveal Catherine's knife stabbed into his back. As he thrashed in anguish, he knocked the candle from its holder and onto the drapes which quickly took fire.

Davy looked at his mother. She lay there in a pool of blood, her hand outstretched to where her husband had been standing. Davy couldn't understand what had happened, he only knew he had to finish him.

David Jones leered at his son, his eyes burning in the light of the inferno that consumed his home. In a blind fury, he charged towards his son.  
Not knowing what sensation came over him, Davy reached towards his mother's corpse and pulled the glass shard from her breast. Raising it into the air, he sunk it into his father's chest.

Gasping his last breath, David Jones grabbed at the shard that impaled his heart, and fell backwards into the searing flames.

Davy stood there amongst the chaos, watching his father burn. Vengeance was his.

"Davy!" he heard a voice cry from a thousand miles away. "Mrs. Jones!?"

Appearing at the doorway was Mildred, her eyes falling on Davy.

"Davy!" she shouted as she darted towards him. "C'mon, we…"

As she reached for him, debris from the collapsing ceiling fell on top of her. Pinned on her stomach and burn marks across her face, Mildred looked up at young Davy Jones.

"Davy!" she called. "Help me!"

Davy looked down upon her. He didn't know why, but he did not reach for her.

"Davy!" she screamed in sheer panic.

Her cries fell on deaf ears. Davy turned from her, and walked towards his mother. Reaching down, he took up the bloody locket in her hand and marched onward.

"Davy! Help me, please!"

Davy would not help her.

He walked out into the night as all he ever knew lay behind him in a blazing storm of fire. Rain pounded his body and lighting tore across the sky. He looked out at the raging sea, and let the blood and rain wash over him. His mother had died that night before his very eyes. And with her, all Davy knew of love, pity, and compassion.

He would roar before the Earth and Sea, and the world would fear his name.

God help him if he ever loved again.

---

_If you want to read more fics written by Roland Trask, check out his profile page!_


	6. Elizabeth Swann's Mum

**Written by: **_Florencia7_**  
Beta: **_FreedomOftheSeas_

**Shadow Box**

**---**

Three months he waited for a reply, but it never came. Not a letter, nor an indifferent note. Nothing. He had written a letter, and sent the guitar; for the first time he had sent something more than a letter and for the first time she had not replied. Was there a connection?

As risky as it was, he came; wandering in the rain all night while squinting into the darkness to see a flicker of indifferent light in her room which could mean that her silence was purposeful.

But alas there was no light and no answers in the dark windows. So, he waited until dawn.

From the shadow cast by an old tree he watched the door being opened, people rushing in and out for several hours until he finally saw a man come out of the house. The man was clad in black, but it was not until he saw a little girl in black that he realized the sadness in her eyes which seemed to be traveling in his direction...

She met his gaze, and stopped walking, looking at him expressionlessly; and he was too far away to notice the trails of dried tears on her face.

"Elizabeth?" The girl's father gently tugged on her hand, and she started walking again.

The man in the shadows stared at the empty road long after the carriage with Cherilyn's husband and daughter vanished from sight. The air was cold and the wind bereaved, and he could not believe it was all real.

He would not have believed it, if it was not for the sorrow in her daughter's eyes and her name on the gravestone which he finally found the next day.

He had lost more than could be counted, seen more people dead and dying than anybody ought to, and yet as he looked at her name engraved in motionless, dark letters, he felt a piece of his heart freeze and fade... her fingers awkward on his guitar strings, hesitant on his chest, warm in his hand...

He played for an entire night, quietly. There was darkness around him and a handful of torn memories in his head, and in the morning he went away, taking her shadow with him.

xxxxxxx

She inched her face to the mirror, slowly breathing against it, watching as a thin mist covered the smooth surface, obscuring her reflection. Lifting one of her fingers she wrote her name on the glass and smiled, placing her hand back in her lap, her gaze lingering for a moment on the gold wedding ring that sparkled palely in the faint candlelight.

The knock on the door startled her, but she did not move, turning her head toward the open window instead. It was cold, too cold to sit in the open air, and yet she always found the scent of winter air comforting.

Another knock, this time more quiet, and her name uttered in a gentle voice that made her heart clench.

With one more look into the night, she rose to her feet, closed the window, and went to open the door.

xxxxxxx

Every day brought more books and more uncertainty, and sometimes she had an impression that she was trying to outrun her own thoughts by subjecting herself to imaginary travels that filled her days, sifting through gloomy mornings and rainy afternoons. She did not feel comfortable if at the end of the day she could not think with glee about new books she had bought while she was supposed to complete numerous other engagements. She kept a stash of ignored visiting cards in an old clock, and a package of letters to which she was never in the mood to reply in a box under her bed.

After a few months she already adjusted to her marriage. It was just another situation to which she had to adjust, really. She did her best not to think about what she had expected a marriage to be. How thoughtless that was! Cleverly, she made a mental note not to expect anything anymore.

She knew what she was expected to do, what she had to do - and what her husband would not even notice she did not do. Fairly quickly, she realized that with a bit of diplomatic naïveté, she did not have to do much, except for what she needed to do in order not to draw attention.

To her satisfaction, as time went by, she even began to develop a sincere respect and attachment to her husband, who proved to be 'almost ideal, if not too ideal'. Her parents greatly enjoyed that anecdote of hers.

Only she was not entirely sure if respect and friendship were the feelings she had hoped to find in marriage. However, that did not actually trouble her all that much as she had previously decided not to dwell on her former dreams.

Either way, whether she thought about them or not, did not matter much because, conveniently, her husband seemed equally oblivious to both: her dreams and the lack of them.

xxxxxxx

Cherilyn sat at the table in the far corner of the room, not really knowing what she was doing in such a place. Even the very word had something dreadful to it: a _tavern_. She cringed inwardly, taking a sip of her water.

The longer she was there, the more foolish her little endeavor seemed to her. She hugged her little daughter to herself, kissing the top of her head. The baby was almost two years old, tired, but not complaining in the slightest, merely looking around with curious, hazel eyes.

Perhaps she should not have taken her daughter with her... but she was just reluctant to leave her, even for a couple of days. She was spending all her days with her, and she was quite proud to not have missed a single new expression that appeared on her daughter's face or a single new word that she uttered. She had not thought it possible to love somebody that much before, but on the day her daughter was born everything had changed, and she could not believe that she could have been living without that feeling in her heart before.  
She preferred to think that the enormous change in her heart was caused because of her love for her child and the love she possessed from being a mother were so great, and not because her other feelings were not... there, at all.

With a sigh, she reached for her water, and absent-mindedly took a sip, warily regarding her surroundings. She did not feel endangered; she thought that even in such a place nobody would hurt a woman with a small child, though it was a conviction that began to dwindle as soon as she noticed gruffly looking men leering at her from time to time. It was really foolish to think that she would be safe merely because she was unattractively dressed and she had a small child with her. In fact, maybe the child and poor clothes were actually making her look more vulnerable?

She put the mug down, spreading her open palm on the table to keep her fingers from shaking.

She could not believe she had become so irresponsible as to board a ship and travel here. Her parents would have been outraged, and her husband as well. Why did she always have to do something daft when her husband's work caused him to go away and leave her alone for a few days or weeks?

Yet, she had never done something that daft before.

The first time when he had gone away, she had borrowed her maid's clothes, and had gone to the parts of the city she had never been allowed to go to. She had not even seen much, with the coat's hood half-covering her eyes. It was the walking across the forbidden streets in itself that made her heart race, filling her with strange energy that usually smoldered purposelessly in the dullness of her days.

Since then, every time her husband had gone away, she had set out for a 'journey', usually limiting herself to other parts of London and neighbouring shires. Although, this time her husband was to be gone for two months, and so with bated breath she had decided to use that time to travel further than she had ever traveled before.

And not merely travel, but _sail_.

She had told her parents she was going to visit her friends in Lincolnshire, packing as little as possible, while taking as much money as she could have gathered without raising suspicions - and left.

She began to relive her passage to Spain, hours spent in the coaches on her way from London to Portsmouth, and then the ship that she boarded that was to take her to Bilbao. She repeated the name over and over in her head, it sounded like a magical word, and she half-expected something fantastic to happen every time she said it.

The captain of the ship was friendly, if not a bit confused as to the reason of her traveling alone, with a small child to another country, with nothing but a small bundle of clothes and a pouch. She had made up an elaborate tale involving long lost relatives, tragic separations and miraculous reunions, and somehow the journey had passed in a leisurely atmosphere.

The weather was beautiful and she had spent most of the time on the deck, admiring along with her little daughter the sea glimmering in the sun, the sound of the waves crashing against the hull filling her heart with strange, unknown excitement that made her laugh for the very first time in years.

A gruff voice pulled her out of her reverie, and Cherilyn jolted in her chair, subconsciously tightening her grip around her daughter who was falling asleep in her lap, despite the noise around them. She looked wide eyed at a strangely looking man who slumped into a chair next to them.

"I'll buy ye a drink," he announced in a slightly slurred voice, leaning back in his chair.

"No, thank you," she said stiffly, hurrying to her feet. She quickly remembered her previous thoughts on how irrational it was of her to come here in the first place.

She tried to calm down by telling herself that all she had to do was somehow survive until the next day and then try to find a ship that could take her back to England. It would not be difficult, if it was not for the fact that she did not have a place to stay. Surely there should be an inn somewhere near, and she had the money to pay for a room.

She wanted to walk past the table when her arm was suddenly grabbed from behind.

"I said I'd buy ye a drink!" repeated the man, turning her around.

"I have to go," she tried to snatch herself out of his grasp, her writhing causing her daughter to wake up, but having no effect on the stranger.

The man tried to push her back into her chair, and her repeated efforts to break free caused the baby to start crying. She looked around, surprised by the lack of reaction to what was happening.

Once again, she thought to herself that it was the most awful idea to travel so far away on her own, to a town she did not know, without a fixed place to stay, putting her and her child's life at hazard.

"I think you should remove your hand, mate, lest you want to lose it."

The voice was deep and low, with a hint of nonchalance laced into it. Cherilyn's eyes darted to the side, to a tall man with dark hair, a guitar secured by a leather strap draped over his arm, a pistol in his hand. The pistol was not pointed at anybody, as the man was merely fiddling with it, but the look in his eyes was so dark and intent, that the drunken stranger let go of her at once, muttering some unintelligible words under his breath as he stumbled away from them.

She did not even have the time to thank the stranger when he looked her up and down in a rather unnerving manner, a flicker of a smile crossing his face. "I will accept one kiss in exchange for my help," he said good-humoredly, but smugly enough to both entrance and scare her.

"I didn't offer any," she replied evenly, attempting to calm her daughter who had stopped crying, but began writhing instead, trying to look over her shoulder and see to whom her mum was speaking.

"Not yet, indeed," he agreed slowly, and she blushed, biting the inside of her cheek in irritation. "Should I walk away, then, and wait for you to get in trouble again?" he asked with a hint of amusement in his voice, turning his pistol around in his hand before putting it back behind his belt.

"I was just walking out," said Cherilyn decidedly, thrusting up her chin to look more confident than she felt. "Thank you for your help, Sir."

She barely looked at him, and then quickly curtsied, rushing across the room while scolding herself for the ridiculous gesture she had done out of the habit. She could feel several pairs of eyes following her as she made her way through the tables scattered in the room, and she just hoped she would have enough luck to find a decent inn for the night, and then she would leave in the morning and go back home.

Whatever had possessed her to travel there in the first place?! Suddenly, the entire idea stopped looking exciting, but it began to look horrifying instead. If her parents or her husband were ever to find out-

"Where are you flying so fast, dove?"

She stopped and took a deep breath before swiftly whirling around, wrapping her arms around her daughter protectively. "I don't see how it is any of your concern, Sir."

"What have I done to deserve such a harsh treatment?" he asked, placing his open palm over his heart in an exaggeratedly dramatic gesture. In the falling dusk and the first glimpses of moonlight she noticed a few strange jewels weaved into his hair. There was also something strange about his face, a few oddly deep wrinkles, dazzling eyes, a sharp contour of his lips... she was not sure what it was exactly.

What she was sure about, however, was that she should not pay attention to all those details.

"I had no intention of being discourteous. I only wished to say-"

"Dove..."

Suddenly, he was a few inches away from her, the backs of his fingers brushing across her cheek, and the words froze on her lips, as did her gaze, fixed on him, and somewhere in the back of her mind she wondered why she had not run away yet.

She jerked her face away from his touch. He merely gave her a faint smile in response. "Being courteous here might be one of the least fortunate ideas that you managed to construct in your pretty head," he said, glancing at the wedding ring on her finger, and at her little daughter, who half-turned toward him, regarding him with curious, brown eyes. "Your husband's either very good, or very bad," he said, shifting his eyes back to her face.

Cherilyn frowned, a glint of indignation lightening her eyes, even though she knew that it was probably ridiculous to be indignant right now. How could she possibly explain her current situation? Her being in that place alone? She only hoped he would not ask-

"So what are you planning on doing here, fleurette? All alone, at dusk," he said, tilting his head to the side giving her an impression he was actually enjoying causing her to grow more and more irritated with every passing second.

"I fail to see the point of furthering our conversation," she said haughtily, biting her lip. "Good day," she said, turning around, and exhaling when he corrected her greeting to '_good evening_'.

"Are you not looking for a place to stay?" he asked without moving from where he was standing.

Cherilyn stopped in her tracks and whirled around. "I'm not staying here. I'm leaving. Sailing away. Tomorrow," she added firmly noticing his arched eyebrow.

He slowly looked right and left, and then back at her. "On what?" Not a muscle in his face twitched, yet she could tell he was amused.

"I don't understand," she said coolly, hugging her daughter while absently kissing the top of her head. Somehow the responsibility to make sure her baby was safe was giving her strength she was not sure she would have had otherwise.

"No ship leaves the port tomorrow, dove," replied the stranger with a small shrug.

"How do you know?" she asked a bit too quickly, paling rapidly. She had not thought of that. In fact, she had thought of so many things her head began to spin, and she had troubles to even trace back her own reasoning. It was so abstract, all of a sudden. She felt a cold wave of fear washing over her at the realization that she and Elizabeth were all alone here, in some Spanish town, with nowhere to stay, and it was nearly dusk already.

"I live here," he replied after a pause. "From time to time."

She looked away distracted by a sound of breaking glass, several people stumbling out of the tavern, laughing loudly.

"So," the man tilted his head to the side, regaining her attention. "Do you have a place to stay or not?"

"I think I already-" she started, but he cut her off in a very slightly impatient tone, but still impatient enough to make her cringe.

"I can no more trust that you're not some runaway maid who kidnapped somebody's child than you can trust me not to be a murderous criminal."

"What do you mean?" Cherilyn's eyes widened in indignation, and she took a step backwards, hugging her daughter to her even more. "This is my daughter! How dare you-"

She froze when his hand covered her mouth for a brief second, and she was grateful for the briefness of the gesture, for it gave her no time to ponder why a part of her seemed to welcome it.

"I'm merely showing you that you're not the only one here not knowing what to expect," he said in a low voice, looking her deeply in the eyes, and she found herself drowning in his gaze until she managed to look away, confused by the sensation.

"I don't need your pity. I have money," she said firmly, slightly pursing her lips. She did not want him to think that she needed to be at anybody's mercy. She could very well afford a night in the best inn in this town! If there was any best inn in this town, that was, and if she could find it in the dark.

"Good for you," he replied, a ghost of a smile flickering across his face. "Unfortunately I don't sell my services."

She blinked, opening her mouth and closing it again. He could see that she was struggling to make sense of what he had said, intuitively suspecting that he had said something inappropriate, only that she could not quite place what it was.

"But I do have a room for rent," he added, offering to take her packet which she declined, so he reached for her arm and pulled her with him, and she was too startled, and still too preoccupied with finding a suitable answer to what he had said to protest.

xxxxxxx

"Is this your house?" she asked standing by the door, half-considering walking out. What she was doing here? In a house of a stranger, in a Spanish town, with nobody back in London having even a vague idea where she really was. Should something happen to her, nobody would ever know.

Her family could merely consider her and her daughter missing. They could never guess what she had done, and she could not believe she had done it herself either. Her _trip_ seemed more abstract with every passing second and she was petrified by her own thoughtlessness.

Unfortunately, there was nothing she could do to undone what had already happened. She could only try to come back home as soon as possible, it was all she could do. That, and pray that nothing bad would happen to her daughter and her in the meantime. She should have at least left Elizabeth at her parents'! It was barbaric to risk her child's life and safety.

The trouble was - she could not stand an idea of parting with her daughter, if only for several weeks. She could feel her heart break at the very prospect. She was not attached to anybody else as much as she was to her daughter.

Sometimes, it even worried her how indifferent she felt toward her life, her family, her husband. She had thought that there was something wrong with her, with her feelings... But then her daughter was born and brought all those feelings to her, restoring her faith, making her believe that she actually _could_ feel something; that she had a heart; that she was able to love.

"No," the man walked around the room, lightening oil lamps. "I stole it in Turkey, and brought it here."

Cherilyn darted her eyes to him, biting back an involuntary smile. "Must have been difficult to transport," she said matter-of-factly, averting her gaze from him before his dark eyes focused on her again. She looked around the orange-lit room suddenly wondering who he was. She could not make out the answer to this question from the way he looked, and she was reluctant to draw hasty conclusions. He could very well be a musician, quite simply.

"Not really." His voice was suddenly near, and she looked at him in surprise. Apparently, he had a talent of walking in the most noiseless of manners. "I carried it on my back," he added, taking a step away from her, and slowly pulling the leather strap over his head, placing his guitar on a fabric-covered table with subtle, but noticeable reverence.

"Do you play the guitar?" she asked unnecessarily, hesitatingly walking away from the door when he gestured for her to come closer, taking a pillow out of the wardrobe, and fluffing it before throwing it onto the bed that stood in the corner. He indicated the bed to her, and she slowly placed her daughter, who had just fallen asleep, on it. She sat down on the edge of the bed, and kissed the baby on the forehead.

The man watched her out of the corner of his eye pouring a dark liquid into two glasses and then walking back toward her.

Cherilyn shifted her eyes between the drink and his face. "What is that?" she asked curiously and the corners of his mouth twitched upward.

"Rum," he said, taking a swig from his glass, and offering her the other glass.

"No, thank you," she said, straightening up a bit.

"You're not allowed to drink it?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at her. It was that mischievous glint she had noticed before flickering in his eyes again.

"I don't want to drink it," she retorted, a bit annoyed by his manner, steadily returning his gaze, as dangerous as it seemed to be, for she was quite certain she had never seen such abysmal, enthralling eyes before.

"Good answer," he smiled mysteriously, finishing his drink and drinking hers in one gulp, "but apart from rum I only have water," he tilted his head to the side, a habit that she had noticed, and that for some reason almost made her want to do the same every time he did it.

"Then, I will have a glass of water," she said, looking up at him, glancing at his hair half-curtaining his face, noticing a string of jewels woven into it, and as far as she could tell they all seemed genuine.

He looked at her for a moment as if considering something and smiled as he walked away to get a pitcher of water. Apparently the house consisted of only this one room, as large as it was, and there was only one bed here, the one on which she was sitting next to her sleeping daughter.

"Where will you- where will we sleep?" she asked, quickly regretting the question upon seeing that smug look on his face again when he handed her a glass of water, and then unceremoniously sat down next to her, and so close that she felt immediately inclined to move away, but his hand on her shoulder stopped her. Her eyes flew to his and she nearly dropped her glass.

"I'm sure we'll come to some sort of mutually acceptable arrangement, fleurette," he said with calm nonchalance, ignoring the aghast look on her face, while she tried to come up with something to say, regretting for a hundredth time ever coming here.

She hastily took a sip of her water. "If you would be as kind as to elaborate-"

"Teague," he interrupted her, leaning closer, his hand still clasping her shoulder, and it both annoyed her and annoyed her even _more_, because for some reason, as abstract as the idea was, she could not stop wondering how his hand would feel on her shoulder if her shoulder was not hidden under the fabric of her dress and her coat.

"That's your name," she acknowledged, looking at him unsmilingly, glancing at his hand on her shoulder, and hoping he would take it away soon.

"You could say that," he murmured evasively, taking the glass out of her hand, and putting it away. "And yours, dove?"

"Cherilyn," she said, rather glad that he had given her only his first name, for otherwise she would feel rude giving him only her first name. She also hoped it would put an end to those strange diminutives he kept using when addressing her. Nobody had ever addressed her in such a way and she found it unsettling how her breath hitched at those words.

"Cherilyn," he repeated almost thoughtfully, and she half-expected him to complement her name, but he did not. "So how much money do you have, mon chérie?" he asked with a glimpse of a mischievous smile in his eyes, startling her with his oddly matter-of-factly sounding question.

"I can't give you all the money I have," she looked at him incredulously, trying to sound strong and determined. "I need to go back home."

"I didn't say I want all of it," he said with a small smirk, and she wondered if he was at all serious during their conversation. "I'm merely trying to decide whether keeping you for ransom wouldn't be more profitable," he added, at last, to her relief, lifting his hand off her shoulder, but then she tensed again when in one swift movement he removed the hairpin that kept her hair neatly tied up under the hairnet, causing her hair to cascade down her shoulders.

"What are you doing?!" she leaped to her feet, trying to keep her voice low for the sake of her daughter, who was sleeping peacefully with her cheek pressed against the pillow. She did not know if it was more ridiculous or heroic of her not to scream in order not to disturb her daughter's sleep.

To her dismay he rose to his feet with equal swiftness. "Have I given you a reason to be afraid of me just yet?" he asked in a low voice, and it crossed her mind that he kept his voice quiet for the same reason.

"You do now," she said in a hollow voice.

He raised his eyebrows, but she said nothing more, so he turned away from her with a sigh and she followed him with her gaze when he walked to the table reaching for his guitar.

"Strange you should come here, if I terrify you so," he said without turning toward her. "Unless," he continued before she managed to interrupt him. "There are other things that terrify you more."

She shifted her eyes from his figure to his shadow on the wall when his fingers brushed across the strings.

"What do you mean?" she narrowed her eyes at him, glancing at her daughter who stirred in her sleep. She shrugged her coat off her shoulders and draped it over the sleeping child.

"What you're running from," he answered after several soft notes, half a melody that reminded her of sunlight on the crossing from England. "Must be terrifying."

"I'm not running from anything," she said in such a natural, clear voice that he turned around to catch the expression on her face. She shrugged. "I just wanted to... see... Spain."

For the first time since the beginning of their conversation his smile turned into almost a grin, a dangerously charming one. "See Spain?" he repeated, maneuvering the guitar in his arms. "I have to say your choice of town-"

"Oh, I didn't mean it so strictly," she cut him off, tucking her hair behind her ears, and his fingers stilled over the strings. "I just wanted to... see a different part of the world," she rolled her eyes. "Different place," she bit her lip. "I just wanted to go somewhere. That's all. I don't expect you to understand what I mean," she added impatiently, wishing to keep him from interrogating her any further.

"On the contrary." He hit a few notes, and then covered the strings with his palm. "I understand very well."

She raised her eyes from the floor to his face. Maybe it was the dusk outside and the candlelight inside, or maybe... he really was immorally handsome.

"You do," she nodded slightly, not quite knowing what to say. She could not remember the last time she had talked with somebody in such a manner, with nobody else around, actually talking about what she was thinking.

"I do," he walked toward her, and she held her breath when he raised his hand to her face, not even trying to stop him when he ran his fingertips across her cheek. "We're all looking for what can't be found," he said, propping her chin with his hand.

"This sounds so sad," she whispered, hoping that he could not hear her quickened heartbeat. If only she could not hear it as well... If only she could not feel the shiver run up her spine when he brought his face closer to hers... It was all wrong, and she should not be there at all. She wished she could feel that way when her husband was so near, she really, really wished she could have since the very first day, but she had never felt that way before, and she could barely catch her breath when Teague cupped the side of her face, and... kissed her on the cheek.

"I do play the guitar," he said in a lighter tone, drawing back. "To answer your earlier question," he amended, seeing the perplexed look on her face.

She must have been blushing, but it was probably too dark for him to see that, and she tried to use it to her advantage and pretend that she was perfectly calm. "That was uncalled for," she said, trying to compose herself.

"What was, fleurette?" he slumped onto a quilt that was spread on the floor, motioning for her to sit down as well.

Cherilyn regarded the quilt critically, and then hesitatingly sat down on her knees across from him. "The kiss," she said trying to sound indifferent, not looking at him, and concentrating on smoothing out her dress.

He slowly shifted his eyes from his guitar to her, a flicker of a smile in his eyes. "I didn't kiss you yet," he murmured in a disturbingly serious tone, and began playing, giving her no chance to retort, and seemingly ignoring an indignant look that she tried to shoot him.

xxxxxxx

No, he had not kissed her then. But as wrong as it was she wished he had, when a dozen of songs and a few long, silent, exhilarating looks later, despite her protests, he pulled her onto his lap, insisting that he would teach her to play. His music was beautiful, and so was his voice, and the stories he told, about far away lands, ghosts, pirates, and fairies.

The stories, he told her, were living in his guitar, and his music was made out of those stories' shadows - for each true story once gone, left its shadow behind, for a musician to capture it and carry it around the world, so it would never be really gone.

He told her that he could hide all his sins and sorrows in his guitar, and that they were coming out of it as music - purified, for music was a hiding place for good and evil, and if there was any truth in the world it was hidden in sounds and silences.

But she found that she would not care much about the guitar as soon as he placed his hands over hers, watching her profile as she tried to concentrate on the strings, tried not to tremble when he brushed his lips across her neck.

"I'm married," she said quietly, closing her eyes, and quickly opening them again.

"Congratulations," he said with a faint hint of amusement in his voice, burying his face in her hair, releasing her hands, and putting the guitar away.

"I mean it," she said with more firmness in her voice, and yet not enough to cause him to stop, apparently. "I have a husband, and a daughter, and-"

"Me too," he murmured, turning her around and she realized with dismay that she had never been so close with anybody. Except for her husband, of course, but apart from him, she had never been so close with anybody else.

She was so close that she could actually feel his breath on her face, his shoulder under her open palm, his heartbeat... in her head... and it was so different, all so different and terrifying, because her husband had never looked at her like that, with such intensity as if her wanted to look through her soul... he had never stroked her hair with such reverence... never glided his lips across her collarbones... never whispered her name in such a voice...

"You have a daughter?" she caught a shred of the conversation in an attempt to distract him... to distract herself...

"Two daughters," he brushed an astray lock off her face, "and two sons. At least," he added with barely discernible amusement in his voice.

Cherilyn's eyes widened. "Oh," she looked at him curiously, startled at first, but then wondering if he was telling the truth. "Your wife must be very busy," she said in a low voice, desperately trying to change the atmosphere while reminding herself – and him – that it was all wrong.

She was repulsed by her own actions, or inaction, rather. She should not have let him hold her so close... pull her dress off her shoulder... press his lips to her skin... "Five children, running the house-" she trailed off, suddenly remembering the '_at least_'. She felt light-headed from the humidity in the room and not all his words and gestures seemed to register in her mind as fast as they ought to.

He laughed; a quiet, murmuring laughter that made her heart flutter. "Your husband must be busy too, if you could sneak out to see Spain unnoticed, chérie."

Her hand tensed on his shoulder as she clenched her jaw. And then, before he had time to blink, she hastily rose to her feet, almost running away from him, glancing at her daughter to make sure she was still sleeping peacefully before walking up to the window.

He did not follow her, except for his eyes that traced her every move, stopping on her face when she leaned against the wall by the window, staring out into the darkness. She suddenly felt so cold without his arms around her. But was it not something usual? She was used to feeling cold, used to staring out into the night in silence...

"That's childish, dove," Teague said gently and yet with a sharp edge to his voice. She noticed that the edge was always there, in his voice, whether he talked, sang, laughed, or whispered.

"I'm not a child," she said defiantly, giving him a pointed look from where she stood in the other side of the room, orange lantern light dancing across her features.

He smiled faintly at his guitar, and slowly pushed himself up to his feet. "Being married doesn't make you an adult, fleurette," he said, walking up to her. "Or a woman," he whispered into her ear, causing her to abruptly turn around to face him.

"My name is Cherilyn," she said dryly, "and I'm most certainly-"

He brushed the backs of his fingers over her mouth, causing her to fall silent. "You talk and think too much, chérie," he said quietly, his eyes never leaving hers when he slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her into his arms. "I knew it the moment I saw you," he smiled, the all-knowing smile that made her feel safe for the briefest and longest of moments.

"That I talk too much?" she asked dubiously, afraid to move, afraid to do anything that could break the spell and cause her heart to beat evenly again.

It was so thrilling to feel so strange, for a change; to feel shivers all over her skin, strings of flickering impulses setting her thoughts ablaze, turning everything else to ashes, everything else but those feelings that he could somehow ignite with his touch, with the way his eyes lingered on her lips just long enough to cause her to lean into him more and more until their lips touched and he kissed her – and did not stop. She thought she knew what a kiss was, but she was either wrong in her conviction, or he was doing something wrong. And there was no doubt he was not doing it right.

A part of her was surprised that she could still breathe. Another part was lost in the kiss... or whatever it was... his lips molding hers, shaping that strange, glimmering shadow in her head into a glowing rainbow that stretched from her conflicted thoughts, through her confused feelings, to her heart that kept beating faster and faster. She could barely hear anything else but her own anxious heartbeat in her ears, his arm around her, his hand sliding into her hair, pushing her head closer... She parted her lips without thinking and shuddered in surprise, but he did not let her break the kiss.

It must have been the longest kiss in the world for when they pulled apart the air was made out of swirling grains of gold and she did not want to be reminded that such a thing as time had ever existed.

She must have said something silly, because he laughed, running his hand through her hair.

He must have said something wonderful, because she closed her eyes and smiled.

It must have been love at first sight, for otherwise she could have never forgiven herself for that night.

And for the next one, the one before he took her back to England on his ship.

And for all those other nights during the next three years, stolen moments draped in lies she never confessed to anybody but her own soul. Her heart felt heavy each time she looked in her husband's eyes, and yet it never felt heavy enough to make her miss an engagement with the rogue she did not know much about except for a few facts he changed every time they talked, his voice when he whispered her name, his smile when he tied strange jewels into her hair, which she was hurriedly taking off in the carriage on her way home.

It must have been wrong, because one day she fell ill, and never wrote a reply to his letter with which he had sent her a guitar he made.

It must have been right, because after she had died, one night he came and played on her grave all night.

In the morning he went away, taking her shadow with him.

He never visited London again.

---

_For more fics written by Florencia7, please visit her profile page!_


	7. Estrella's Mum

**Written by**: _Tarlea_  
**Beta**: _Nytd_

_**A Distant Star**_

---

Frances Hawkins plunged her strong hands into the large basin of cool water, watching as the sticky, bloody substance clouded the water. She turned, drying her hands on a creamy white linen.

On the bed in the center of the room sat a mother, bedraggled and sweaty, holding a bundle of linens, newly christened William. Beside her on the bed was a girl of about twenty-three with nut-brown hair and a wide, merry smile.

As she watched this blissful scene the older woman noted the absence of the father, and was struck with a sudden and powerful rush of memory that made her gasp sharply.

Unnoticed, she slipped out onto the terrace, blinking in the bright Caribbean sunshine.

She could still remember the heavy paneled walls and the staunch casement windows of Wescombe Hall. She could still remember the elegantly carved mirror and silver-handled brushes of Lady Wescombe's dressing table, and the acrid smell of His Lordship's tobacco.

The Wescombe's were an old family, firmly rooted in Somersetshire for several generations, and they relied heavily on the tradition and order of their forbears.

Frances remembered growing up in the ancestral home, working there with her brother Michael, rising with her diligence from a kitchen hand to a parlor maid.

She recalled the day that a large black carriage had arrived, from which emerged a stretcher, on which was the heavily tanned face and fevered brow of Mr. Timothy Wescombe, the oldest son of his Lordship.

Timothy Wescombe had always possessed the happy manners and handsome features that made him well-liked wherever he went. To this was added a quick and curious mind, an even temper, and a compassionate heart.

To the displeasure of his parents, he had not stayed in England and secured a wealthy match from the many willing candidates. His eagerness to travel led him to enlist in the army. Soon the post was filled with his letters, most recently from the West Indies. The last letter had been from his general, telling about a disease that left Her Ladyship's favorite son bedridden and blind.

So he had returned to Somersetshire, and doctors had been summoned even from London to no avail. As she had always had an aptitude for nursing, Frances was assigned to help the doctors in their examinations and administrations. Once Her Ladyship had given up hope, the doctors stopped coming and Frances was assigned to be his caretaker. This was largely due to the fact that, shockingly for a maid, she'd been taught to read and write.

So, at nineteen she was spending her days caring for a man six years her senior, becoming his hands, his eyes and his confidante. He'd tell her of his adventures, of the glories of the Caribbean and the horrors of the battlefield. She told him, when he asked, of her work at the Hall before his arrival, of the latest servants' gossip, of her parents.

She looked forward most to the evenings, when she would read to him from the books he had brought back with him from the Caribbean. She would read aloud in Spanish and he would laugh and correct her pronunciation, translating the words for her, unable to see the warmth in her gaze, and ignorant of the longing that began to grow unbidden in her heart.

One night in July, with the windows open to let in the fragrant summer breeze, she sat by his bedside, reading to him from her favorite of all his books, a book of poetry by Lope de Vega. As he slowly translated the words, a young man was telling a young woman of the steadfastness of his heart, and she heard her voice falter, yearning to tell him of the love that rested in hers.

When she finished the poem, she sat silently, watching him.

"Frances?" he called to her.

"I am here," she replied.

"Come here. I want to look at you," he commanded gently.

She obeyed, going to sit on the bed, leaning forward and guiding his hands.

Frances could still recall the rough palms sliding slowly over her face, caressing every contour, every inch. She could still recall when he leaned forward, the unspoken question asked and answered in an ardent kiss.

She had closed her eyes then, so that she might remember all of the burning sensations of that night which still numbered among one of the best of her life.

Yet after great joy often comes great sorrow, Frances reminded herself. She relived the pain of that day, when she had stood in the parlor, Lady Wescombe's voice as cold and cutting as ice. She recalled the vile insults and insinuations. She had listened as Timothy had pleaded and cajoled, threatened and railed, matching his mother in stubbornness and spirit.

But not in strength.

He'd collapsed on the elegant rug of the parlor floor, his exertions aggravating his illness. Frances waited sleeplessly through that night, not allowed to see him, praying he would live to see the morning.

He did not.

Lady Wescombe rose from her despair long enough to accuse her of killing him, and to turn her and her brother off the place without pay or references.

After a few days, an acquaintance of her brother's had spoken of a ship bound for the Americas, and of his plans for a new life in the New World. Having nothing to lose but the sting of the past, she and her brother joined his party.

The blackness of the cramped and pungent hull matched the grief that infested her soul until that day when she discovered that some part of Timothy, of their love, had lived on.

She was born in April, and had the dark wavy locks and warm heart of her father. Frances had named her dear child by one of the worlds she remembered from his books, a word that he had used often in his descriptions of the beautiful Caribbean skies: Estrella.

Frances had watched her grow, delighting in her capability and compassion, and the frequent laughter that made her look oh so like her father. She'd also inherited from her father a kind of a sixth sense, an ability to see what others could not, to notice the subtleties of human nature. She predicted the marriages of many of the couples of Port Royal often before the lady and gentleman in question were aware of their feelings.

Frances sighed, hoping that her daughter would make a happy match, and be spared all the bittersweet sorrow that her still unmarried mother had experienced.

"Mum?" She heard Estrella call her from within.

"I'm out here, dear," she replied.

"You ok?"

Estrella walked out on the terrace, placing her head lovingly on her mother's shoulder.

"Yes. I was just thinking of the day you were born."

Frances felt the grin spreading against her shoulder.

"Oh, mum," she was chided. A moment passed. Then Estrella spoke again. "I love you, mum," she said simply.

"And I love you, Estrella." She put a hand around her daughter and drew her into a hug.

They stood together in silence, gazing out at the horizon, while within Elizabeth shushed the crying of her beloved baby boy; and above, the Caribbean sun smiled down on the blessed day.

---

**Tarlea A/N: **_Factoid_** - **Lope de Vega (1562-1635), in addition to being a poet, wrote prose and over a thousand plays. Still one of the most popular playwrights in Spain, he is known as the 'Spanish Shakespeare.'

_For more fics written by Tarlea, please visit her profile page!_


	8. Gibbs' Mum

**Written By: **_L'il Pirate_**  
Beta: **_FreedomOftheSeas_

_**Northern Beginnings**_

---

I could hear nothing but the roll of muffled drums amidst the crowd, but I could see nothing but the ill-favored wig of the gentleman standing before me. I had always been a petite girl, but I had never once regretted it more than I did today.

Quickly scanning the crowds, I spotted a breech to my left, behind a variety of ratty looking children. Guessing my height would be better suited to that spot, I quickly staggered through the pressing crowds towards the children. Arriving there I smoothed out the folds of my dress and pushed my braid off my shoulder, looking up as I took in the entire scene.

The fort courtyard of my beautiful little home town was filled with townsfolk, and Mr. MacCullen, the town magistrate, stood in the center of the crowd atop the scaffold, which has been long out of use here in Annan. Something was different though - dreadfully different. This morning there were two other men atop the scaffold with Mr. MacCullen.

One man, a young man was dressed quite peculiarly in old clothing mismatched upon his person and a cloth about his head. Was he injured? He surely didn't look like he belonged there; he looked like he was from far away land. Perhaps, someplace I had never heard of or imagined.

The other man atop the scaffold was holding the young man roughly by the arm, whose hands were tied., and was all dressed in black with a hood over his face. I could see nothing of his face but for some odd reason I didn't feel as though I wanted to.

I wanted to know what was going on. I had never seen anything like this happening at my home, nor had I heard of any happenings like this. I looked around for my brother, Duncan, whom with I came to town on an errand from father. However as soon as we arrived, we were swept up with the commotion and carried through the bustling town to the fort and into the courtyard where I now stand.

Losing Duncan amidst the crowds left me fearfully alone among the strangers. Duncan knew that I didn't like people pressing so close around me, especially with such old sweaty bodies crammed together as they were today. I did not recognize one face around me which made me worried but I knew where I was, who stood beside me did not matter.

Confused, I turned back to the scaffold and the men atop it. Mr. MacCullen was amid a very dull speech about the consequence of sin, I didn't pay much attention although, I suppose, I should have. It was always my opinion that Mr. MacCullen should have been a clergyman just by the way he carried on about the importance of a sinless life and an impeccable upbringing. He was a very smart man, my father always told us, but he was very dull and spoke an awful lot. I thought he always spoke too much but I always kept this to myself, for father would not be pleased.

Growing tired of listening to the dull speech, I turned to try my hand at making my way out of the crowd again to find Duncan when I spotted Charles, one of Robbie's friends. He and Robbie, my eldest brother, were nearing twenty years of age, nearly six years older than I. My elder sister, Martha, was quite in love with him, but I had never seen him talk with her for a great deal of time that showed any returned affections - let alone anything that was of consequence. I think it is a lost case for Martha, but she is determined that she will have him, and I know better than to argue with her on the subject.

Although, he was best friends with my brother, I was surprised to see him coming towards me. I secretly liked Charles more than I did Robbie, but I never told anyone about it. Duncan would have teased me and Martha would have simply sniffed at me commenting on how childish I sounded. No, I avoided anything that dealt with Charles when I spoke with my sister.

But Charles was not like that, he never spoke of anyone like Martha did. He was a great deal like Duncan actually, very cheeky and kindhearted. But he was never impolite to me like older brothers can be. Although, he never sought out my company, he never rejected it when I tried to tag along with the boys. That's why I was surprised to see him coming towards me now.

"Miss Molly." He grinned kindly, nodding to me as I gave him a small curtsy in greeting as I have been trained to do.

"Are you enjoin' all the fuss in the market today?"

"I think I might if I knew what was goin' on."

Charles looked solemn as he regarded the men standing aloft the crowds and sighed.

"A dull day, it is, and the worst form of entertainment. I do not think you would like it one bit." He looked at me directly as he spoke, giving a pause before he continued to be sure he had my attention. "There's goin' to be an execution."

"An..." My eyes darted to the scaffold in surprise. I looked upon the man not much older than the young man beside me and felt ill.

"You mean they're goin' to..." I looked back up to Charles sadly. He knew I had never heard, nor seen anything like this before and as his eyes fell upon me I could tell he was not pleased himself.

"Aye, Miss Molly."

"But... they couldn't possibly... I mean." Struggling for something meaningful to say I balled my fists at my side. "What has he done? He can't be much older than ye or Robbie. He couldn't have done anythin' so bad that would make it alright for 'im to... die, " I said, whispering the last word, thinking it would make it easier to say, or that it wouldn't sound as horrible. But I was wrong, it did not make it sound any better at all.

Charles gave me a sympathetic look and put his hand on my shoulder as if it had been so natural, as if he had been my brother instead of Robbie or Duncan. I looked up at him, searching for answers, begging him to tell me what was going on and why I didn't understand.

Charles sighed painfully. "Not everyone is like ye're brothers or me in this world, Miss Molly. And that man isn't from anywhere we've been told about. He doesn't know what kind of life we live here, and I suppose, maybe he never knew a life as we 'ave it. The world is a hard and dangerous place, and when he came here he brought some of it with 'im. It's true he may not be very old but since he's been here he's done some very bad things. Things you should never hear or know about. Now he's goin' to be punished."

"But... there must be some other way. He can't die. He won't learn anythin'!" I cried, knowing that this was too great an injustice to leave be. It was not fair! I had done some naughty things before but I never got anything more than a stern talking to from father. Couldn't this young man do the same? Couldn't someone just tell him he did wrong and everything would be okay?

"I know Miss Molly, but it's not our choice. The law states that he can be sentenced purely for his way of life, no specific crime is required. We must abide by the law, and that is what Mr. MacCullen is doing."

"Even if it is unjust?" I whispered. I was brought up never to question authority, so I was not accustomed to it, but Charles did not mind. He only shook his head sadly.

"Even so," he replied to me in a whisper of his own.

"This man has not denied it, nor can he. It's out of 'is hands. Mr. MacCullen does not care if this man learns from his mistakes, he has been given the chance and he has failed."

I turned back to the scaffold at the sound of Mr. MacCullen beginning to draw his speech to a close. I looked at the young man; he was looking at his feet and standing unmoved. How could he just stand there? I wanted to know. I had never even seen Robbie that quiet and accepting. Not even Father, who protested hours before he let mother use a needle to take a sliver from his finger, had been so composed when faced with even a quarter of this man's fate.

"You see, Miss Molly, he was not accepted into our town nor thought to live up to our rules. The rules that protect us, accordin' to Mr. MacCullen, he must pay the price."

"With 'is life?" I asked quietly and Charles nodded sadly.

"I don't pretend to like 'im for that but I don't agree with this. No small crime, or way of life should be a sentence for death."

"It hardly seems fair." I added, and Charles nodded. "Is there nothin' that can be done? Can no one stop it?"

Charles squeezed my shoulder gently and watched the scaffold a long moment.

"Nothin' can be done. Not now. Not for this man."

I glanced down at my shoe, feeling very sad but confused still.

The world sure was a confusing place. I far more liked my quiet little home beyond the loch, miles outside of this town. Things at home were far simpler, far happier. Mother's cooking, Father's pipes, Robbie's books, Duncan's flock, Martha's singing, and baby Alice's giggling. Everything was so perfect, and just, not like here standing in the crowd with Charles.

I looked back up at the scaffold, as Mr. MacCullen's voice died away, and watched as the man stepped forward with the other hooded man beside him. I watched as the hooded man looped a rope around the young man's neck and stepped back. Next Mr. McCormick, the town lawyer, climbed up the stairs and made his way to the edge of the platform before the crowds. Opening a parchment scroll he spoke loudly above the lonely calls of the brace of oxen, impatiently waiting, by the livery stable across the square.

"Thomas Raven. Be it known that you are charged, tried and convicted for your willful commission of crimes 'gainst the crown. Said crimes bein' severe in nature and large in quantity, the most horrible of these to be cited herewith: smugglin', theft, lootin', poachin', pilferin'..."

As Mr. McCormick continued, my mind began to block out his words. They meant nothing to me. I had never been away from my little home long enough to know or hear about any of these things. I had no idea what was going on, but I suspected this list, that continued on for nearly another minute was the bad things Charles had mentioned moments before.

I looked to the young man quickly, not fifteen feet from me, and met his eyes. They were black and cold. They showed no fear, nor any regret. For some reason, I could not take my eyes from him. Although, I was always shy of strangers, or even looking people in the eye I could not look away. And for a moment, a fleeting moment, I could feel his confidence and strength. Afraid of this notion, I turned my eyes back up to Charles, whom I was surprised to find watching me.

"Can ye can feel it Miss Molly?" he inquired.

Surprised by his question, I gave him a shrug. "Can I feel what?"

He gave me a small frown. "Perhaps, you can't. I'm sorry, thought I saw it in your eyes, and by the way you watched him."

"You feel it too?" I whispered, suddenly knowing what he meant. Charles looked surprised when I met his eyes again, but he quickly overcame it and gave me a tired smile.

"If you're talkin' about his strength, than aye, I can feel it. You can see the boldness in his eyes. He's not afraid."

I bit my lip as I looked to the young man again, still watching us. I couldn't bear it.

"I'm afraid, Charles."

I didn't look up at him. I didn't want to see his sad look anymore. I kept my eyes on the man standing in the center of the scaffold as McCormick finished the sentence and drew a breath bringing me back to his words instead of the man's eyes.

"For these crimes you are charged to hang by the neck until dead."

Mr. McCormick paused as I looked to the young man, standing silent and calm.

"May God have mercy on you're soul," said the lawyer.

I felt Charles' comforting and steady hand on my shoulder. I balled my fists to keep from shaking, but I didn't take my eyes off the scaffold. As much as I didn't want to watch the young man die I wanted to remember his confidence and his fearlessness. I kept watching.

I watched as Mr. McCormick left the front of the scaffold and disappeared down the stairs. I watched as the tall hooded man walked across the platform to the large frame post and the leaver attached to it. I watched as he reach out, grasping the leaver and then-

"Charles?"

Charles didn't say anything. Or I didn't hear him say anything. All I remember is turning quickly at the sound of the trap door breaking open and hiding my face from the scaffold. Charles quickly acted along with me and put his arm around me as I faced him, hiding my face in his coarse jacket as if he had been my father and me a little girl as opposed to a young woman of twelve.

As much as I had wanted to watch the man, that confident young man I knew so little about, I couldn't watch someone die. We stood amidst the crowds for only a moment more before Charles shook my shoulder gently until I looked up at him, tears blurring my vision.

"Come, Miss Molly. Let's go find that brother of yours."

-----

Even now, years later, I dream of that day. I see those black eyes so confident staring at me from the scaffold in my dreams and I feel that comforting hand upon my shoulder, reminding me there is a safe place I can rely on amidst the world - my home.

That day seemed like many other days by the loch, and the days after continued as they normally heard but I never forgot it. It was the day my eyes were opened to the world, and I did not like what I saw.

Many changes occurred in our little home and our growing family, in the years between that day and now. My brothers married and set up businesses of their own. Robbie in England and Duncan here, taking over the farm. Poor Martha never quite got over Charles. It seemed like forever before I stopped hearing about Charles when she returned home, but I suppose it was for the best.

Four years after that young man died in the fort we, or I, began to see a lot of Charles. I spent much of my time in the fields with Duncan and his herd, and then Charles when he came to work for my brother. We three began to spend a lot of time together, time which I didn't think much of until Martha came home for the summer.

Martha had found me in the field with Charles for the first time on the day she returned home from visiting an aunt in Dumfries. He had been working with Duncan in the fields and I had been sitting off to the side that day watching and talking with Charles as he stood nearby. Martha had watched as he tucked a wild lily behind my ear, and she had watched as Duncan yelled over at him, in good nature cursing him for paying such attention to his little sister.

In the months that followed, Martha seemed to be everywhere at once. Although, I had never had her confront me on the subject, I knew she watched us. She always did. She had watched as he and I walked through the fields together. She had watched as I cradled a newborn lamb in my arms, as we brought it to the house to cheer my ill father, and how Charles petted its muzzle, brushing my hand longer than he should have. She had seen us the first time he took my hand as we walked with the sheep, and I don't doubt she watched as he kissed me for the first time as we sat in the lush green pastures overlooking the bay overlooking England.

No. I had never heard Martha mention Charles again once she saw us together. At first, I had been worried I had broken her heart, as I spent time with Charles, but soon enough she was herself again and raving about another young man. It was then that I took comfort, and began to enjoy every minute with Charles without feeling guilty.

It took another year before anything else happened in my family's lives. And that was the marriage of Martha, to the young Doctor Jenkins. He had been Martha's consoling after she lost Charles to me, and he turned out to be her deepest love. They, both incredibly in love, were married in the middle of June at our farm amid the small grove of Lilac bushes.

That day was so happy for all. After the wedding Charles and I walked together through the field overlooking the cove, it was a quiet afternoon, with the rest of the family preoccupied with the wedding our disappearance was unnoticed. Charles had been distant over the weeks prior and I was beginning to worry about him when he stopped me at the crest of the hill and announced that he was leaving our home of Annan Scotland and heading across the country to Machrihanish, a harbor village established and thriving.

As I stammered to think of a reply, he stopped me before I could speak. He told me how deeply he cared for me, how much he loved me and that he could never leave without me at his side. He asked me to marry him. And although he told me how much he was longing to go, he promised that he would never dream of leaving if I did not want to. If we were married that is. He never said what he would do if I rejected the marriage, if he would leave or not, but I found myself troubled at the thought of anything beyond me accepting his proposal and becoming his wife.

That was when I laughed happily, told him he was crazy and that I would go anywhere he wished to - that I would never leave his side. I told him I would marry him.

Charles and I were married the next spring, at a small ceremony at my home, just as Martha had. And two weeks later we set sail for Machrihanish. Quite far from the ridge we had always sat together with the flock but in some ways so much better than those days.

That day was near eighteen years ago now. Charles and I settled on the shores of Machrihanish, and we live there still with our five children: Lewis, the oldest, Joshamee, Anne, Neil and Matilda, the baby. As the children grow I am constantly reminded about my family far away spread out through England and Scotland. I miss them but I will never return home. My home is wherever my husband and children are. And no matter how I fret for them I know we are happy and content with our life.

Every morning, I watched my boys off to work from the front step. Lewis and Joshamee worked at the docks now, repairing ships along with their father and running all sorts of errands. Today the boys were not going to work, they were going to the fort, and they were meeting a man named Kenneth, Admiral Kenneth.

My boys were joining the navy.

Charles, my beloved husband and dearest friend, came up behind me as I stood on the front step, watching my sons happily making their way up King Street toward the fort across town. I had ever noticed until now just how much they had grown. It seemed a haze the years they were small enough to bounce on my knee. All the days I spent chasing them through the garden, or the hours they amused their sisters with dolls and toy soldiers. Now they would become those soldiers they used to play with.

Slipping his arm around my waist, I leaned against Charles and tucked my head under his chin, feeling safe and secure in his arms I could put my anxiety aside as we stood together before our home.

"We've done a good thing raisin' the boys as we did Molly." Charles told me softly as he looked down upon me. But I was unable to take my eyes off the road and my two sons disappearing into the merchants setting up stalls to showcase their goods.

"Aye, we have," I murmured, my mind hazing with memories.

Charles rubbed my arm consolingly, bringing me back to present as my skin warmed under his touch. I turned by head and looked up at my husband, smiling gently as I took into account how he has changed over the years.

His once beautifully youthful face has become lined with wisdom and age, worry over countless births, scraps and crying fits. His eyes were as kind as ever but more content and holding now a depth I had never seen before. So many things he had seen, so many tears we shared, so many smiles we enjoyed, so many dreams we had lived.

His hair had begun to gray over the past few years. Many thought it a saddening thought but I always regarded him as more handsome than ever. I did not mind that time was changing us, but rather enjoyed the days we aged together. He was still a relative young man, not yet fifty. We still had many happy years awaiting us.

I, however, had not changed much. Charles told me this everyday, that I was as much the same as on our wedding day eighteen years prior. My hair was as red as ever, although he had begun to darken as the years passed. And after bearing five children I remained as small as I ever was. My father used to call me his little Shetland - small and pretty, but stout and sturdy. After all these years of hard work building a home and family I can say myself that he was right.

I smiled up at Charles as he gave me a dashing grin.

"What ever are you thinkin' of, Miss Molly?"

I shook my head at his smile and gave a grateful sigh.

"Time," I answered him lightly. "As I watch our boys, all grown up and walkin' away from us I was thinkin' about time, and how much it changes us all."

Charles rubbed my arm again and gave me a sad frown.

"You regret this time we've been here?"

"Lord, no." I gave him a loving smile and patted his hand around my waist. "I'll never regret any day, nor any hour I've spent here with you and our family. I just regret the outcome of time. I would much rather have my boys stay young then go off leavin' in such a manner. I miss watchin' them chase each other through the garden or steal a gingersnap from the jar in the kitchen like thieves. It's a sad thing watchin' the boys grow up. I can't imagine what I'll do when Anne has young lads callin' on her."

"Ouch, luv. You're gettin' ahead of yourself there. Anne's not but twelve yet."

"I married you at seventeen, and we had an understandin' when I was sixteen."

Charles winced at the thought but gave me an intimate smile.

"The day will come, luv," I told him sadly. "Just as this day has come for our boys - joinin' the navy they are. They're as good as shipped abroad the moment they step through the gate at the fort."

"Come now, luv. They're good boys, they'll be fine. They're singin' on, it doesn't mean they are leavin' at dawn."

"Maybe so, but I can't help but worry. The boys don't know what it's like in the navy. We have been lax in our associates I fear that they will receive a rude awakenin' when hey discover that their friends may be friends no longer but enemies."

Charles looked off across town towards our boys. They were such good boys and had a great deal of friends. He knew I was right about them, but Lewis and Joshamee were such loyal creatures; they were not prejudice about ones background, or colour for that matter. We had raised them well, we had taken great care to have our boys grow up the way they did. But it had been their choice to join the navy and it was a choice that would take some getting used to.

"Lewis and Joshamee will be fine, my love. They will learn in time to ignore the impertinence and thoughtlessness of their superiors. They are good boys; they follow orders well and do not take offense easily. They will hold their heads high to be sure. They are not easily swayed in their thinkin'. As you and I are so keenly aware."

I smiled at Charles brightly. By the way his eyes narrowed and his lips curled, I knew exactly what he was hinting at by his last comment. Lewis had always been a determined boy. Joshamee not as much, but Lewis was dreadfully steadfast in his thinking. At age eight he had found an abandoned puppy by the towns livery stable and had brought him home, begging for hours until Charles and I relented to keep him. Lewis did this many times throughout his life but Charles was thinking of the last time Lewis came to us. And I knew this just by the glint in his eyes.

"And you think that his beloved Rebecca will consent to his joinin' the navy?" I asked, giving my darling the knowing smile of a wife and loving mother. Charles grinned and stroked my chin with a lingering thumb.

"She'll get over it to be sure, my love. She's a strong willed girl and a perfect match for Lewis, if you ask me," Charles grinned.

He liked Rebecca. That much was clear. We all did. The young girl was cheeky enough, entirely loyal and very much in love with our son. We didn't care that she had no family, no reputation nor any money to her name. We only accepted her word and her love.

"But that is not the point is it, Molly?" he asked, his voice low and quiet.

"No. You know what it is," I replied, sadness penetrating my voice.

"Did you dream about him again?" Charles asked quietly, intertwining his fingers with mine.

"Yes."

Charles sighed. He knew about my dreams. He knew I dreamt about that man we had watched hang that spring of 1712. He was there every time I awoke from my nightmares, always consoling me through the creeping fear of those chilling moments.

"What happened this time?" he inquired softly, just as every time he lulled me back to sleep with his velvet voice during those nights when I was awoken by the sound of the trapdoor snapping open.

I looked up at Charles, saddened as I thought of it.

"I am worried Charles. If Lewis and Joshamee are not careful I fear they will see many friends hung during their time within the service, and perhaps..."

I bit my tongue, closing my eyes tightly as I felt Charles' arms tighten around me.

"The boys will be fine, me love. They would sooner defy their admiral and captain than betray a friend."

"That's what I'm afraid of. Lewis is an easy boy, he's determined but he knows when to quit. I worry about Joshamee. He's got an honest streak that could put the pope to shame. I'm afraid that one day he'll take his loyalty to a friend too far and-"

"Come now, Molly. You have nothin' to fear. Lewis and Joshamee will never find themselves in such a position as that man did back at the loch all those years ago. Trust me."

I looked back down Kings Street. I could still see my two boys, just dark blurs moving away up the street. My dear boys.

Perhaps Charles was right. Such loyal creatures would never deserve a criminal's death. And no matter what my boys did, if they stayed in the navy or went against it I was proud of them. I knew they would be steadfast to our teaching. They would do great things my two boys. Of that I was sure.

---

_For more fics written by L'ilpirate, visit her profile page!_


	9. Jack Sparrow's Mum

**Written By: **_FreedomOftheSeas_**  
Beta: **_Nytd_

_**With Eyes of Burnt Onyx**_

---

Legend had it that the beauteous Draupadi - wife of the Pandavas, was lost to the Kauravas in a gambling duel. The lascivious victors were intent on humiliating and harassing Draupadi by stealing the diaphanous material that draped her demurely, they continued to pull and unravel, but could not reach the end, and thus undrape her.

Legend also had it that The East India Trading Company's initial purpose was to trade, yet they gradually took over as rulers, doing the work of the British government as it established its dominance in India. Indian folklore was not her cup of tea, but she had seen the tale come to life, witnessing how the Company had been draped by a treacherous sort of material, and no matter how hard the people of India pulled for freedom, attempting to unmask the demon beneath the fabric, they found that they could never pull quite hard enough.

As a result, princes and kings lost their kingdoms, being restricted by a small privy purse. They denied women education or association with the educated, ruling out educated woman as 'bad' women - a notion that became so very common in the years to come. This led to the loss of rights for women, and the production of women's literature, art and clothing almost came to a standstill.

Perhaps it would be the last time she washed her saris within the river Kaveri. Though she would rather wash for an hour alone than venture through steep mud banks on either side of the Ponnaiyar, which was dense with prickling bushes and overhanging trees. She knew that once she got down in the riverbank, she could not see more than a few yards, and she did not have the very same vistas of mountains unfolding behind or in front of her as she would in her hometown of Tanjavur.

Throughout her life, she had seen a long line of wonderfully educated woman dominated by men, relying on the fact that their hand-woven Sambalpuri saris made them look graceful, stylish, elegant and sensuous while turning their cheeks to the fact that they were not given any form of human rights, simply because they were women.

Nevertheless, at the dawn of the eighteenth century, some women began to rise up, showing dissatisfaction with their unfair conditions, or at least that's what she told herself.

Optimistic she was, and there was no harm to that.

She lived in a community where one life was intertwined with the other in strength against the Company. It was their river, and their water, but no matter how many times she washed her saris, she knew it was a mud hole, and could not get her clothes clean for the life of her.

Two ancient washerwomen were left washing clothes by hand in the river by the time she was finished, working in unison as they beat their clothes on a pair of rocks near the riverbank. Their feet were immersed in mud and pricked by sharp rocks, though that did not stop them from their work.

She could still hear the crackling derisive voice of their accuser, howling over the brushes and stones of the Kaveri as they appeared through the early morning mist with long-barreled shotguns ablaze, hoping to teach capitalist dynamics to rural women.

"Fools! Is this your river?" said the man. "This river belongs to the Company! Get out of here, you old hags!"

The others knew it just as well, which was probably why they beat their saris dry on stones far above the river instead of leaving them to dry beside it in the sun as they once would have centuries ago, returning to the river later in the day to pick up their garments and return home to their husbands.

But she would not; rather she preferred to carry her wet clothing home in a small basket, unwilling to risk the arrival of a sea of red coats as she washed in the Company's river. The ancients took on the risk and continued to do so until there was nothing else for the red coats to do or say, but pull the trigger.

---

The eastern horizon was brilliantly illuminated with the orange glow of a setting sun, appearing as if it were just an illusion of a world far beyond her reach. Yet, it hastened the arrival of another merchant ship to make port on the outskirts of Tanjavur.

The ship's captain sent servants to the market in order to buy a few provisions, which was odd, seeing that the recent paucity of rainfall and the poor quality of the soil permitted few crops to be grown in Tanjavur district. In some portions of Manduri, only two crops could be sown and gathered annually, so these visitors were a bit premature, to say the least.

She made a daily trip to the Tanjavur street market, but that day, she would tie back her long black tresses, and place a fine veil over her face for protection against the unscrupulous eyes of their city's newcomers.

In a very short time, she found herself weaving through crowds of small children who sold maggot infested fruits and semi-rotten vegetables. She stopped only to buy a few apricots from a small boy sitting alone on a wooden trolley, watching a smile emerge from his lips as she placed ten paise in his sullied hands, which was well more than what they were worth.

He looked up, smiling at the woman with eyes like burnt onyx, and she smiled back at the young boy before she continued on, in search of new material for her saris.

One the way, she found herself purchasing more vegetables than she had anticipated; children began to follow her with radishes, turnips, carrots, cauliflowers, and cabbages even though she humbly refused at first. No doubt they were attracted by the large sum she had given to the other boy for his overly mature apricots.

Amidst the chaotic bustle of the crowd, and cries of hungry children, the sounds of beautiful music triggered her to stop by table with brightly colored saris of the most beautiful silk material, decorated with a frieze of flowering plants, figurative images and abstract symbols. She was not an admirer of silk, for it was harder to wash and required a delicate hand in wrapping and fitting, but she was an admirer of the sweet sounds from a composer that washed away the dust and mud from her confined existence.

The composer sat on top of an oak barrel not too far from where she was standing, legs casually crossed upon one another with a guitar gracefully resting on his lap. Skillful fingers plucked various sequences of cords with utmost accuracy in tone while long pieces of delicate fabric danced around him, enveloping his poised figure as the material swirled in the ever changing breeze. A fairly large black hat was placed on the ground before him where onlookers could throw their coin, if they so wished.

It was a radical time for musicians, a really revolutionary time, and sometimes the thought of revolution to her was more bearable than living in fear. Most knew that such liberation was an ever shifting horizon. The people of India were promised liberation from the old ways, but liberation turned out to be an ideology that could never fulfill its promises.

Perhaps, it was that very reason why she stood there frozen from his presence; her heart pounding as she tried to place a face on the music's creator, but was denied by his thick black mane time and time again. He was the type of man that was not seen but heard, though she did see him in a trance, curling his lean form around his guitar as he painted his melodies on pure silence.

She slowly advanced toward him, shifting through the fabrics delicately, attempting to not disturb their positioning on the table as she kept a sharp eye on her surroundings, minding her social etiquette. Although, she was not focused on the intricate patterns that lay before her, instead the designs had blurred as the moments wore on, and she quickly disregarded her senses as she let her mind travel to a far more distant place where the horizon was covered with clouds – a thick and impenetrable curtain between earth and sky. However, there was a brilliant beam of sunlight peaking through the curtain, for she discovered a new world for the very first time.

Nimble fingers lost their purpose as the music came to a sudden stop, causing her to look up as she heard him thanking a man for dropping a few paise in his hat – his first signs of profit for the day would not go unnoticed. He scanned his surroundings for a moment after the man took his leave, sliding his long elegant fingers through his hair as his gaze shifted in her direction. A smile parted his lips ever so slightly when his eyes finally connected with hers.

Silence was, indeed, louder than the crack of thunder.

Without warning, her legs began to propel her backwards into the crowd, and she disappeared from his sight behind a dense sea of cattle, dust, and eager merchants.

It was the first moment she gave close attention to any man by her own accord, and with clear mind and heart, she saw a remarkable and indescribably magnificent world in itself.

---

She returned to the market several days later with a terribly fearful demeanor. The scolding she received from her mother left her with less confidence, causing her to appear rather shaken. One thing was for certain, she must be sure to not let her eyes wander in the direction of another white man ever again. There was no doubt that someone had recognized her approaching the young musician. Thus, she was forced by her mother to place a darker veil on her face, letting her black hair tumble forward beneath another veil that was skillfully pinned to the crown of her head, covering whatever was left bare to the eyes of the outsiders.

She must remember that she was betrothed to a noble physician that would be suitable enough to provide her with a prosperous existence. She must not put her future in jeopardy for ogling a white street urchin.

She must also remember that she was, as a matter of fact, regarded as a captive and salable commodity in her Hindi family, relegated to a plaything of man, and an ornament to decorate the drawing room. Serving, knitting, painting and music were her pastimes, and cooking and cleaning were her business.

If anyone had a heightened sense of smell, they would have had to prepare for a stench overload at the market that day. Dried and fresh fish mixed with the smell of onions in the sun along with that unmistakable aroma of a nearby open trench was indeed something foul that plagued her nostrils.

Though, she pressed on, passing through small clouds of dirt kicked up by roaming cattle to her destination – a small table filled with a variety of spices that included cinnamon, cumin, sugar-coated fennel seeds, curry powder, cadamom, white poppy seeds, ajwain seeds, star anise, peppercorns, mustard seeds, cassia bark, nutmeg, coriander seeds, turmeric, dried chilies and saffron. Another small table beside it contained lentils that were still in season, but she dared not venture to it, hearing the rumors of husbands beating their wives for not cooking them properly.

She purchased a small pouch of curry powder and dried chilies for her family's supper and promptly began the journey back home, stopping only at the sound of a strange voice, and a language she had learned many years ago while she was still allowed to go to University. She hid behind a hanging display of thick fabrics as she watched the scene unfold.

"What is the purpose of your visit, boy?" said the man with the crimson red coat, standing tall and proper with his long-barreled shot gun placed leisurely on his shoulder.

"Driftin' by, I suppose. Trying to make an honest livin' for a few days while we restock our ship's supplies," he answered honestly, strumming a note on his guitar as he continued to tune it to the proper pitch.

"As opposed to a dishonest one, I gather?" the soldier asked rhetorically, continuing on with his interrogation. "Came in on _The Aurora_, did you?"

The young musician nodded his head, sucking his lip as he strummed another melodious note.

"I'd appreciate it if you would kindly desist from your insolent behavior while I am addressing you."

The musician stopped, pushing back his black locks as he looking up at the soldier with a clear, but narrowed brow.

The soldier shifted through his inner coat pocket, pulling out a small scroll, unrolling it to read the lad a summary of his wrong doings. "There have been reports of theft and disrespect originating from your fellow neighboring merchants. You have also been spotted addressing the women of this city with disregard to their cultural standing."

"Is that so? Seems to me I've just been sittin' here playing my guitar. I haven't addressed anyone in any language you would understand."

"And what language would that be?"

"A language that expresses feeling and thought without speakin' a single word because it's beyond words, mate," he said, smiling.

The red coat did not understand. Of course he wouldn't, but she did. It was _music_ – the sound of his soul escaping from his fingers that echoed from her ears to her heart.

"Enough!" the soldier exclaimed, wrinkling his nose as he took a quick breath to compose himself.

"Now, we are amidst negotiations of an exchange of merchant marine men with your captain. If there so happens to be one more report about you sailors, then we have no choice but to take aggressive action. My generosity toward men like you is a rarity, so I suggest you be on your way before I change my mind," he said, kicking aside the musician's hat aside into the dirt as he took his leave.

The musician hung his head low for a moment, bending down to retrieve his empty hat, watching as dry dirt flowed with the passing wind as he dusted it away.

He turned to return to his barrel, finding a woman behind him, prompting him to a sudden halt. It was the same woman he remembered seeing just a few days prior.

She looked down at his hat, noticing that there was no profit made from his long day of playing. Suddenly, her inhibitions dropped, her mother's scolding words vanished, and she became concerned for his well-being. Looking down at her own wrist, she removed one of the golden bracelets that she owned, handing it to the young sailor.

"Generous," he said, studying the golden trinket between his slender fingers. "Too generous, by my reckoning."

'_Generosity is not the sum that is given, dear musician, but rather the manner in which it is given,' _she thought, fidgeting with her veil's hem, but she would not dare to utter a word to him. Instead, she opted for a small smile, which he would not see anyway.

"What would prompt your act of charity, Miss? Do you pity me?" he inquired further, finding that he could not escape her gaze. "You shouldn't, if that's it. Don't waste your time on me."

A gentle breeze traveled between the delicate silks and tapestries of the Tanjavur street market, carrying clouds of coarse sand along in its peaceful passage. The gust traveled through her various scarves of dainty silk, slithering through the strands of her hair to caress the smooth skin upon the back of her neck. She stole a glance at the small children who continued to run through the town's dirty streets, selling their rotten fruits and vegetables.

He followed her eyes to the dusty street and nodded his head in understanding. "Or is it in your nature?" he asked, grinning.

Perhaps, it was her nature to love with such generosity of heart that her love continued to be a most dear possession in the absence of kindness. It was a gift that gold and silver could not buy.

However, silence enclosed her like a confining force, causing her to say nothing to his inquiry, not only for his sake, but for hers as well.

---

After a few days of finding the trade beginning to slack, the crew of _The Aurora_ longed to hove up its anchor, set their topsails, and hoist its colors to its peak, readying to leave the town astern, bearing down to the coastlines again.

She was present at the docks, finding that she had consciously diverted course from her original plans earlier in the day. She patted down her hair, and fixed her shimmering veil, noticing that all of her proper saris were in need of a wash as she carried them along in a basket by her side.

The time of day was dawn when the sun was just rising over the horizon, leaving glowing essences of pink and orange upon the face of the deep ocean before her.

She felt her heart pounding harder than it ever had before as she pressed on, realizing that she had not only diverted course from her duties as a daughter, but was disobeying the direct orders of her family and dishonoring the reputation of her betrothed. Yet, she could not help but continue moving forward into the crowd of sailors as she spotted the man she was searching for – her musician. Curiosity was a dangerous luxury, indeed.

As she emerged from the early morning mist, she quickly found that he had spotted her as well, and had dropped a coil of rope that he was carrying on his shoulder as she drew near.

He was the first to speak. "I can't accept this. I was a fool to take it in the first place," he said, digging into his pocket to retrieve her gold bracelet.

A smile emerged beneath her veil, and she realized that she was just as young and as foolish as he.

She gently took it, sliding it back onto her wrist before reaching into her basket, pulling out a piece of parchment from under her pile of saris fabric.

"Will you accept this instead?" she said, keeping her voice low. "On one condition – don't stop playing. Not because of _them_," she added quickly, handing him the paper as she quickly scanned the docks for red coats.

"You have my word," he said with a smile, nodding his head to her in thanks as he pocketed the piece of parchment to read later on in privacy.

Gentle fingers slithered beneath her chin, lifting her head up high. "Do you really pity me that much?"

"I do not pity you. I envy you," she said without delay.

After a moment, she found the tips her fingers eagerly passing along the edge of her veil, pulling it down to reveal her face. "Your music speaks of freedom."

He shrugged his shoulders. "The freedom to dream means nothing, if one does not have the love to pursue it."

"Then, I hope you find that love one day," she replied, biting her lip.

A sly smile emerged from the corner of his lip from her interpretation. "Same to you, lass," he said, soaking in her appearance, knowing it would not be the last time he would lay eyes on her.

She turned away from him, leaving before she could be spotted. As she ran away from the docks, she could feel the cool sensation of sweat running down her back from fear. Later that day, she would find herself submerged within the muddy waters of the Kaveri, attempting to wash away her worries, but she knew that she would not be cleansed.

When she was out of sight, the musician unfolded the small piece of parchment, scanning its contents.

---

_Songsmith, _

_May your music continue to inspire you to wish for a world of hope that stretches farther than the flight of sparrows._

_We will meet again. _

_~Samhra _

---

It was many years later that the young musician returned to the docks of Tanjavur, now captain of _The Misty Lady _– the ship formerly known as _The Aurora. _The dock was where she learned his name, and where she would formally give him hers in return.

_Captain_ Edward Teague – a name that melted her heart each time she thought of it.

By that time, she was married to her successful physician, just as planned, yet she had borne no children from his impotence. She came to Teague as a different woman – a woman scarred by her marriage, and bruised by her husband because of his own weaknesses. _The Misty Lady's_ return ignited the spark to a forbidden romance between a lone musician and a woman whose spirit longed for freedom against oppression and cruelty.

It was a romance that reached its peak with the birth of their first son, who was as free-spirited and charming as she. The betrayal of her husband and disrespect demonstrated against her family prompted her to leave her country for a far more dangerous life, though she would stop at nothing in the relentless pursuit of her own basic human rights, even if she had a strong commitment to her people. It was a risk she was willing to take for the devotion she possessed for her lover and her newborn son.

Legend had it that she delivered her son amidst a great typhoon in the Indian Ocean. A fine tale to tell those who were never truly in his presence, but to those who really knew him, his effect on the minds of others were significant enough to be considered the embodiment of such a treacherous storm. The boy needed no one to tell him otherwise.

Teague always told her that her baby boy had her eyes, as dark as burnt onyx and paired with a smile that could heal the most tarnished of hearts. When he came of age, she couldn't bear the thought of her babe being out at sea; especially at the command of the Royal Navy and at the mercy of the same Company that caused her country to rattle its bones in poverty.

Though she stayed optimistic, hoping that her boy would see the error in his ways and would one day, sail as the free spirit he was born to be.

---

Several years later, she passed on giving birth to Edward Teague's stillborn daughter, whom he would have loved with all of his heart and soul if he had known her.

He held her for a moment, looking down at his little girl, feeling such pride swell within his soul. It felt like a dream, and he considered his dream a gift. Even though he would have never seen her open her eyes or hear her laugh, he knew she would have been a spitting image of her beautiful mother, so there was no doubt in his mind of what to name her.

"Samhra."

---

**FreedomOftheSeas A/N**: Thanks, Nytd :)

_**Draupadi**_ – The epitome of feminity and feminism, a heroic princess of the Hindu epic of Mahabharata. She was firm and a woman with an unbending will. The proud and angry heroine of the epic Mahabharata, Draupadi has was an enigmatic woman of substance.

_**Sambalpuri **_**–** a textile that is essentially handloom. It is fabricated using tie and dye method. The craftsman conceptualizes the design, draws it and according to the design, he colors the yarn, all by hand. A **sari** or **saree** or **shari** is a female garment in the Indian subcontinent. A sari is a strip of unstitched cloth, ranging from four to nine meters in length that is draped over the body in various styles.

In all of my pieces, I've maintained that Captain Teague's first name is 'Edward' and not 'Grant.'

---

_Check out FreedomOftheSeas's profile page for other fics!_


	10. Mistress Ching's Mum

**Written by**: _SirenoftheStorm  
_**Beta**_: FreedomOftheSeas_

_**Without Fear  
**_  
---

"The child is a girl."

Yu let her eyes fall closed. '_I will not apologize. I will not.'_

"I am sorry, Nai Nai.*" Her mother in law made a derisive sound in her throat.

"Of course you are sorry. We are all sorry. She is another mouth to feed when we have little enough already." Yu nodded. It was true. She held out her arms nevertheless, and her youngest daughter was put into them. She touched the little cheek, watched the baby kick one foot, then the other, eyes barely open, still adjusting to the newness, the harshness of this world she had only just been brought into.

"Nian-Zu must be told," Yu said, carefully sitting up despite the pain that shot through her lower back when she moved.

"I will tell him. Stay resting. When your strength has come back to you, you can rise and eat something." The older woman gave the baby a sharp look, then nodded almost grudgingly. "Well, she's quiet, I'll give her that. And she can wear her older sister's clothes, so that's an expense saved. Rest now. I will bring my son."

"Yes, Nai Nai," Yu agreed, her eyes not leaving the small, wrinkled face of her daughter.

The infant clenched her hands into little fists, opening her mouth—not crying, just tasting the air. Yu hugged her youngest child close to her as if the small body were a talisman that would shield her from the exhaustion, the crushing burden of duty and need.

'_You must be lucky, little one,'_ she told her daughter inside her mind. '_You must be lucky__and subtle and strong, because this is no world for the weak. I know that all too well._ _I have little strength to give you—I never learned how to be strong myself.'_

Yu pushed aside the faded fabric of her robe and let the baby nurse, stroking the soft, fine, downy hair that was still scarcely more than a shadow against her little head.

"I have little strength to give you" she repeated in the softest ghost of a whisper, "but I can give you this one gift. I will not teach you fear. I will not be the one to put fear in your eyes."

"Mama?" Yu looked up to see six-year-old Mei-Fen peeking around the edge of the door.

"Come welcome your new sister," she said, beckoning the child closer.

"Was I that small?" Mei-Fen asked, coming to the side of the bed and reaching up to put a small finger on the baby's even smaller fist. She was a shy child, gentle and obedient. Like her mother. Yu nodded.

"Smaller. You came earlier than she did."

The infant let out a small cry of protest as her mother took her from the breast and turned her around so her older sister could see.

"Is she unhappy because she is not a boy?" Mei-Fen asked Yu.

"No, because even though she is a girl, she is lucky," Yu said, and willed it to be so.

"I'm not unhappy either. A sister is even better than a doll," Mei-Fen decided, making her mother laugh—they hadn't been able to afford a doll for Mei-Fen, but they'd given her something even more expensive, a sister. How ironic it was!

"Would you like to hold her?" Yu asked. Mei-Fen nodded and Yu showed her how to make a cradle of her arms and laid the infant in them before slowly, painfully beginning to strip the small mattress of the sheets soiled by the birthing.

"She's got my bracelet," the little girl said a moment later. Yu looked over to see one little fist clenched tightly on the little bracelet she had made for Mei-Fen for her last birthday. It was a simple thing, made of wooden beads strung on thread.

"It's all right. She can have it," Mei-Fen added as the little fist tugged, trying to pull the captured bracelet off Mei-Fen's wrist. "I think she likes it."

'_It's all right. She can have it.' _Yu thought, staring down at the fabric in her hands. '_How many of us have said such things, believing it to be our duty, our purpose? It is all right. You may take from me what you need. I will bear it. And where has it gotten us? Here, in a hovel, with dirt on our feet and hunger in our stomachs. Do not be like us, daughter. Find a better life for yourself. Learn to take_.'

"I will tell you a secret, Mei-Fen," she said aloud, lowering herself to kneel on the ground, level with her daughters' faces, one red and wrinkled, one suntanned and dark-eyed. "Your sister is lucky because she has a little dragon inside her."

"A dragon?" Her eyes widened. Yu smiled, placing two fingers over the baby's breast.

"Yes, right here. A fierce little dragon to bring her luck, to wrap around the pearl of her heart and make her strong," Yu told her daughter, the words a prayer, a call. Would even the littlest of dragons hear her?

"A dragon-sister." Mei-Fen smiled at the idea, her eyes sparkling.

"Yes, you have not a brother but a dragon-sister. And we are the only ones who know."

The three of them shared a moment of silence, a woman's conspiracy, fragile as a butterfly's wing.

The door from outside opened, and Nian-Zu came in, placing a hand on Yu's shoulder.

"Mother told me," he said, his eyes lingering on Yu first as if reassuring himself that she was all right. "She is healthy?"

"Yes," Yu said, smiling a tired smile up at her husband, who stood there ripe with sweat from plowing the fields, the lines of care etched into his face aging him beyond his years. "She will live. I am sure of it."

"We must choose an auspicious name," he said, taking the baby from Mei-Fen's arms to look at her. "A son would have been the greatest blessing, but she will be a good daughter to us, clever and dutiful."

Yu met Mei-Fen's eyes, a silent secret passing between them, and then she looked up at her husband cradling his newest daughter in his calloused peasant hands.

"Yes," she agreed, and within her heart she repeated her silent promise.

'_You will be different, my dragon-daughter. Ruthless. I will not teach you fear.'_

---

***Nai Nai**: mother-in-law, specifically "husband's mother" (Chinese)

---

_If you'd like to read other fics written by SirenoftheStorm, check out her profile page!_


	11. James Norrington's Mum

**Written By**: Jennifer Lynn Weston

_**The following is a missing scene from Chapter 34 of 'Jack To The Future.'**_

---

"Those're the only Norringtons 'ereabouts. If yer wantin' anyone more recent, ye'll have to check one o' the newer graveyards."

James looked up from his contemplation. The speaker was a middle-aged man with sandy hair and a plain, friendly face, leaning against a nearby bench. Most probably a caretaker here, to judge from the splotched coveralls and pronged trash stick.

"I shall keep that in mind for future reference. But these are the ones I was searching for this morning." James indicated a linear family plot, marked out with a modest fieldstone border. At the head stood a pair of weathered gray slabs, their inscribed names barely legible:

'Andrew James Norrington'  
'Marie Draper Norrington'

The caretaker eyed the centuries-old graves in an understanding manner. "You hain't alone. Folk come 'ere all the time doin' roots studies."

Norrington doubted he meant the botanical variety. "Pardon me- 'roots studies'?"

"Named fer that telly series. 'Bout the African blokes. 'Got all manner o' folk interested in locatin' theer distant ancestors."

"I see." James made a mental note to find out about that TV series.

"If you don't mind my haskin', where is it yer from?"

"My most recent residence is Jamaica, in the Caribbean."

The rumpled man nodded. "Yer forebears go there ta make theer fortune raisin' sugar?"

Norrington wondered whether the man was more educated than his station suggested, or if he'd gleaned such historical information from conversations with visitors. "To serve in the Royal Navy, actually."

"Ah. Maybe that gent?" The caretaker pointed his stick at a military marker, just in front the larger headstones:

'Sacred To The Memory Of  
James Lysander Norrington  
Admiral, HMRN  
Lost At Sea'

The former navyman inclined his head. His implied confirmation was not really a lie- that James Norrington was indeed his antecedent. And the marker's inaccuracy was no deception; just an entirely understandable error.

Nonetheless, he was unwilling to speak the falsehood aloud. Not right beside his parents' resting places.

Noting James' troubled expression, the caretaker straightened up. "Well, perhaps I'd best leave ye to yer privacy."

"Good day, sir. Thank you for your help."

The older man tipped his shabby cap and sauntered off, stabbing a few bits of trash beside the curved gravel road. James waited until he'd wandered from sight, before moving several steps back to read the next row of gravestones.

As expected, Rachel was absent- no doubt interred in her husband's ancestral vault in Norwalk. But Jacob Andrew Norrington's simple stone was easy to find. Beside him lay 'Roberta Stevenson Norrington, Beloved Wife And Mother'. Below were their three male offspring, and their own wives.

James continued along the length of the plot, reading the inscriptions over three subsequent generations of Norringtons- five generations in all. Though he had no associations with these later names, it was comforting to know Jacob had successfully continued the family line.

James took less pleasure in noting the fourth generation had apparently abandoned the tradition of bestowing 'Lysander' on the oldest son. Somebody had probably decided the name sounded too old-fashioned. The omission bothered him more than he would have expected.

The fifth generation filled the plot to the border. James considered there could, at this moment, be living Norringtons somewhere in London. But locating them held no special appeal for him. He could hardly inform any of them who he was, and it might turn out that, outside of the familial connection, they had nothing in common. No point in courting disappointment.

He retraced his steps back to the older graves, where he seated himself on the cast-iron bench, to regard a grave he did feel a connection with. Esther Sarah Norrington's headstone was one of the few adorned with a carved decoration; a severed flower bud, denoting maidenhood unsullied and unfulfilled.

James clenched his eyes against the old pain. How many times had he overheard one parent or another chiding Essie for her recklessness- warning her she'd not live to marry, if she didn't cease skating near the unfrozen end of the pond, urging that pony to a full gallop, venturing so close to the headland's edge? Such a cruel irony, that she had indeed died before marriage... sitting in a carriage beside her parents.

On the heels of that grief came too-familiar rage, and equally familiar striving to subdue it. The other carriage's coachman had done jail time for driving drunk. And had long since gone to judgment. That really ought to suffice.

More importantly: even if the wretch had escaped earthy punishment, and were alive today, James knew Mother would have wanted him to forgive the offense. He'd known her views on it since he was ten years old. Rachel had come home, red-faced with fury over some humiliating prank another girl had played on her (he didn't remember the specifics.) Mother had taken the opportunity to call all her brood into the parlor, to give them a talk about the morality, and practicality, of never nursing grudges or vengeful thoughts. It was a sinful squandering of mental energy and living time, and also subtracted joy from life, she'd said.

That was one of the few extended lessons James remembered receiving directly from Mother, she being a firm believer that the upbringing of boys was a job best left to men, who were equipped to understand them. There'd been many a moment, especially in his preteen years, when James had wished she believed differently. Throughout his childhood, the occasions he'd spent with her were like sunsets; widely spaced and tinged with special beauty.

Oh, he knew it was a romanticized view... that the scarcity of his interactions with Mother had colored his perception. No doubt, she'd actually possessed as many human foibles as had Father- a man who could be aloof, impatient, unreasonably demanding, and sometimes stubbornly blind to what he chose not to see. Being aware of these faults had never undercut James' love for Father. If anything, this assured him it was the actual person he loved.

He suspected his sisters had been equally well-acquainted with Mother's failings, and he rather envied them that. He would have preferred to have a clear view of the whole woman. Not just a distant, idealized figure- probably no better a likeness than the painting hanging in the front hall. That portrait had depicted Marie Norrington in the pastel bloom of youth; luminous and delicate as pink rose petals.

He remembered the real woman's face as less smooth and glowing, though certainly handsome. He recalled her shining brown hair, usually curled into corkscrew ringlets, always topped with a little lace cap. That, and the engraved silver locket at her throat, were barely within the bounds of Quaker austerity, but served as expected indicators of her family's status. She'd had a slightly larger-than-average nose, which Rachel was expressly glad not to have inherited. And striking emerald-green eyes- one feature her portraitist saw no need to alter- which Rachel was expressly disappointed to have missed. (Her younger brother hadn't been above teasing her about his better luck.)

Norrington idly drew forth and unfolded his pocket knife, turned it before his face to mirror his eyes on the blade. That portion of his visage was nearly identical to Mother's. He only needed to squint a bit, to almost see her gazing back at him.

It was, regrettably, the only visual image left to him. After the fatal accident, Jacob had mailed him the silver locket, containing miniature portraits of Mother and Father... smaller versions of the front hall paintings. When the Dauntless went down, the locket had been lost with it.

Norrington stowed the little knife, chiding himself. It absolutely would not do, to dwell on such dispiriting matters. He was sure Mother would prefer it if his recollections of her had a positive effect.

So James deliberately reviewed a series of happy moments. Mother singing hymns at the Sunday Meetings, sometimes with embarrassing enthusiasm. Mother reading with Father in the evenings, leaning warmly against him on the parlor sofa. Mother tenderly binding Jacob's hurt finger, gratefully sniffing Essie's plucked wildflowers, cheerily praising Rachel's embroidered sampler. Best of all; Mother attending the ceremony when eighteen-year-old James had been inducted into the Royal Navy. While both his parents had been beaming with pride at his achievement, Mother's smile that day could have dispersed the densest overcast. Just remembering it was doing as much for her son.

James leaned back against the hard bench, feeling much better. Mother may not have played as large a role in his life as he'd have liked, but at least she'd been there until he'd grown to manhood. In that respect, he could count himself fortunate. So many youngsters of his time had been parted from a parent far too early.

Including somebody he knew quite well.

A distant sound caught his ear; repeated metallic bongs. The bell of the Parliament clock tower, if he wasn't mistaken. James lifted his wrist, checking his watch against the resonant chiming.

Eleven o'clock. He should take his lunch soon, if he was to regain a proper appetite in time for dinner. It wouldn't do to disappoint Jack, who'd waxed so eloquent about that restaurant's excellent entrees.

James rose from the bench, made a respectful bow towards the headstones, and started towards the cemetery entrance. Still pondering

It occurred to him, this stay in London might afford an opportune moment to ask Jack about his own Mum...

---

FINIS

---

_If you'd like to read other fics written by Jennifer Lynn Weston, visit her profile page!_


	12. Pintel's Mum

**Written By**: ChaosandMayhem  
**Beta**: Nytd

_**To Keep a Promise**_

---

Delia Pintel had led a life she wasn't quite proud of, not in the slightest. She had given herself to men, fought off men who wanted more than she could give, picked the pockets of both the rich and the poor, and sacrificed her dignity by sitting on the corner each day, begging for change. Delia finally found a job at an inn, one that paid little and demanded she work long hours. But Delia went about all of these tasks without complaint, in order to have a secure life for herself.

And, more importantly, for her children.

Alexandria and Michael were the only highlights in Delia's short and miserable days. They were good children, perhaps rough around the edges---but what else was expected from two products of Tortuga? Still, when she came home each day, exhausted from work, they were always there to help her: preparing dinner, keeping the small flat they rented as clean as possible, and making every effort not to behave as two siblings should.

"Thank you." She stroked Michael's long, dark hair one day with a small smile. "Thank you so much for being such good children."

Michael had simply stared at her with a furrowed brow, not quite comprehending.

Delia sighed heavily. "I'm going to ask something of you, Michael. Alright? And I need you to promise me you'll everything in your power to follow through with it."

Michael frowned. "Awright, mum."

"I want you to protect your sister." Delia's gaze traveled over to a sleeping Alexandria. "This town will eat her alive if she's not careful. She needs somebody to look out for her---a big, strong boy like you."

Michael beamed at the praise. "I will, mum. I promise I will, with all my heart!"

Delia chuckled and tucked him into bed. "Thank you." She kissed his forehead lightly. "I'll see you after work."

"'kay," Michael murmured sleepily.

She slipped out the door and into the night as quietly as she could. Her friend Lucy was waiting for her. "What took you so long?" she demanded.

Delia smiled. "I had to wait for Michael to fall asleep."

Lucy shook her head. "You're too attached to your kids, Dee. You're going to have to let them go sometime."

"I know," Delia sighed. "I just don't want that time to be now."

---

_There's got to be more than one way to keep a bloody promise._

That was the thought of Michael Pintel more than ten years later, frowning as he studied the small, skinny boy before him.

Alexandria had died two weeks ago, a victim of an illness that had eaten her from the inside out, and all that was left of her was her son. He had the small willowy appearance of his mum, complete with her bright and attentive blue eyes. His blonde hair was a gift from his unknown father, however, and so was the narrowed face.

"Yeh got a name then?" he demanded.

The lad flinched. "Yeh. S'Gabriel Ragetti."

"Ragetti," Pintel mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "That yer da's name?"

The young Ragetti nodded. Pintel sighed, recalling the promise he had made to his mother so many years ago. "Well, c'mon. I ain't waitin' fer yeh."

He turned abruptly and walked away. After a brief pause, Pintel heard small footsteps behind him. Pintel hadn't been able to protect his sister, but perhaps he could protect what remained of her likeness.

There _had_ to be more than one way to keep a promise.

---

_If you'd like to read other fics written by ChaosandMayhem, check out her profile page!_


	13. Ragetti's Mum

**Written by: **_Dr. Sugar_**  
Beta: **_Nytd_

_**A Mother's Sacrifice**_

_**---  
**_

Rain poured heavily in Tortuga; the water soaking everything in the pirate port. All the taverns and shops were closed for the night and the streets were almost completely empty.

Down a dark alley, a scrawny boy was sobbing into his knees, not caring that the rain was sloshing down his blond hair. His shoulders shook violently, both from the cold and his grief. There was no one to comfort the small lad. No one to hold him tight, or sing him to sleep, or even whisper his name softy. The person who used to do that was gone. He was alone now. She was gone.

..........

Earlier that morning, the sky was clear and held only a few clouds. A thin woman looked out her front door and smiled at the pleasant sunrise. She sighed and turned to the bedroom to wake her young son. Claire slowly crept to the bed and began stroking his soft, blond hair.

"It's time to wake-up, love," she said in a sing-song voice. The boy muttered something and turned away.

"Come on, lovey," she said, now tickling behind his ears. He giggled, but still kept his eyes closed.

Claire leaned forward and whispered with mock authority in her voice. "Master Ragetti, I order you to get out of bed this minute."

The boy turned toward his mother, his blue eyes now open, and smiled. "Aye, aye captain," he said. Claire smiled and ruffled his hair.

"You have a good sleep?" she asked. Ragetti crawled out from under the thin sheets and sat on the bed.

"Uh, huh," he said.

A pitiful growl came from the boy's stomach. He looked up at his mother sheepishly.

"Sorry," he muttered. Claire reached out and rubbed his back.

"It's alright, we'll get some food soon."

Ragetti looked down at his hands. "Mum?" he said.

"Hmm?"

"How come we can't get some food now?"

Claire stopped rubbing his back for a moment. She sighed and seemed to be looking at something far away.

"We just don't have the money right now," she said simply.

Ragetti looked down at his hands again. "Oh."

Claire looked at him and gave a small smile. "Hey, come here," she said and opened up her arms. Ragetti clumsily climbed into her lap and wrapped his arms around her.

"We're gonna be alright," she whispered.

"I love ya, mum," Ragetti said into her hair.

She bent down and kissed his forehead. "Me too, love," she said.

Boom!

A crash came from the front door making Ragetti and Claire jump.

"Claire?!" came a loud man's voice from outside. "Open up, girl! I know yer in there!"

Ragetti clung to his mother. "Who's that?" he asked.

Claire's face drained while she gripped her son. She forced a smile and held him tighter. "It's just Mr. Cole, sweetheart- my boss. He…he's just come to get his money."

She scooped up Ragetti and ran into the kitchen. The young boy looked confused.

"But we don't have-"

"I know," she said sharply. "I know. I'll just talk to him, alright?"

Claire knelt down and opened the door to a small cupboard. She threw Ragetti inside and started to close the door.

"I need you to stay in here until I get you, understand? Don't come out, don't even make a sound."

"But mum I-"

"CLAIRE?!"

Claire frantically glanced at the door, then back to her son. "_Please _Ragetti, just stay in here. I love you." Then she closed the door.

Ragetti folded himself into a little ball. The inside of the cupboard was very cramped and dark. Especially dark. Ragetti tried to listen to the conversation his mother and Mr. Cole were having, but everything sounded muffled. He could tell Mr. Cole was angry because of his loud shouting. To Ragetti, Mr. Cole always seemed angry. He could almost smell the rum that was coming off the older man's breath. Ragetti strained his ears and nearly jumped when he heard his name.

"…I told you, Ragetti isn't here," said his mother's voice.

"Yeah, more likely yeh got the little sot out hiddin' somewhere," said Mr. Cole's voice. "Yeh've had yer chance Claire, I want me money."

"We don't have any!" said Claire, her voice slightly cracking.

"Yah lyin' wrench!" Suddenly there was a crash. Mr. Cole must have knocked over the chairs. "Where's the money?!" he shouted, throwing more furniture.

"We don't have it," sobbed his mother.

"Worthless slut!" Ragetti heard slapping and knew Mr. Cole was hitting his mother. His body shivered and he tried his hardest not to cry.

"No, Ahhh! Please, NO!"

"Ye're gonna learn what happens when yeh don't pay!"

Another piece of furniture overturned, but this time it hit the cupboard. It wobbled unsteadily making Ragetti cover his mouth to not scream, then crashed onto the floor. The impact shook Ragetti violently; making him hit his head on the hard wood. Slowly, everything started to blackout…

..........

Ragetti woke to the sound of pounding rain as he sluggishly regained conciseness. He blinked several times, wondering why it was so dark, when he suddenly remembered he was in the cupboard. He became very silent, trying to listen for the voices. There wasn't any.

Gingerly, he pushed on the door and realized that he needed to push it upwards. He climbed out and discovered why: the cupboard was completely on its side.

Ragetti's eyes moved along the floor. The room was a disaster. The table and chairs were strewn everywhere; the glasses and plates had shattered into hundreds of pieces, and the few books they owned were lying open with their spines bent.

Bang!

Ragetti jumped out of his skin and nearly ran back to the cupboard. He turned and was relieved when he saw that it was just the front door being swung open by the wind. He climbed over the table and walked to the door. Rain was steadily pouring as the moon began to rise. Ragetti's heart skipped a beat- he'd been out for hours. He closed the door and turned back to the room.

"Mum?" he called out. No one answered. The whole house seemed eerily silent.

Ragetti tried to keep calm as he picked his way through the debris. "Mum?" He looked under the table and upturned all the chairs. Now panic was settling in Ragetti's chest.

"Mum?!" He ran to the bedroom and threw open the door.

"MU-"

All the breath from Ragetti's lungs seemed to vanish. He stood frozen as a statue, his blood running cold. Lying on the floor next to the bed was Claire. She was pale white and surrounded by a pool of blood.

Somehow Ragetti found the ability to move his legs again; almost in a trance, he moved toward his mother. He knelt down beside her and starred in horror.

"Mum?" he barely whispered.

His hand shook as he placed it on her cheek. It was cold. Tears started falling down Ragetti's face as he tried to take in the rest of his mother. Her torn dress. The bruises on her face and arms. The bullet hole in her chest.

"No…Mum," sobbed Ragetti. "Please, no!" His body shook as he wrapped his arms around her.

"Please," he choked. Ragetti clung to his mother and wept, wishing she could hug him back to make the pain go away.

"I love ya," he murmured.

_Me too, love._

_---_

**Dr. Sugar Author's Note: Special thanks to Nytd for beta-reading ****the**** story! Thanks, luv!!**

**---  
**

_If you'd like to read other fics written by Dr. Sugar, check out her profile page!_


	14. Captain Teague's Mum

**Written by: **_Madam_Pudifoot_**  
Beta: **_Mary684_

**For Thy Love's Sake**

The inner city of Edinburgh was made up of an elaborate web of Closes and Wynds – narrow streets which sloped down between packed tenement buildings and markets. As one traveled deeper into the labyrinth its residents became poorer and its streets more clogged with filth. Muck followed the path down to large grates and spilled the dregs out to Nor Loch. The richest tenants lived far above, away from the stench and squalor.

Leith Docks wasn't far; the city's main source of trade, it brought goods and wealth to the town – as well as plague. It felt a world away, now that homes were being quarantined and the ill were forced to stay inside. Laws were enforced to keep contamination at a minimum, and any soul who came within twelve feet of a plague-bearer was sentenced to death. There was hardly any sense of punishing the sick – they were damned, no matter what the law said. Despair kept them from venturing outside of their confines.

The alleys had always been busy with the bustle of people coming and going from the world above, their footfalls the continuous tattoo of the city's heartbeat. That was what Caroline had always loved about Mary King's Close; it was a world into itself, isolated from the dangers of Edinburgh but never lacking vitality. Alive.

Caroline sighed lightly, biting her lip in concentration as she scrubbed her wrinkled hands against the damp wool shirt. She couldn't recall how many times she'd boiled the washing water now, but she knew it was likely too old to do much good anymore, judging by the green-brown rings along the metal tub.

It seemed a folly to bother cleaning when all around her was grime and contamination, though there were times when Caroline was certain mindless tasks were the only thing helping to keep her sane. It kept her from worrying over how long the illness would last, who would be next, and how she would provide for her family once it was all over.

Although the council and her neighbors had dutifully left fresh food and supplies at her stoop, Caroline still tried to conserve as much as she could. The charity was done for fear of their own well being, but once the sickness was purged, Caroline would be left to find her own income, and stockpiling the goods seemed the most prudent option.

She glanced towards the door once more, more out of habit than anything; there was no one around to cause distraction, no matter how fiercely she longed for it. Caroline could never recall a time when things were quiet, for if there wasn't the gentle buzz of conversation, there was always the sound of children playing, keening livestock, or shouts from merchants eager to sell their wares. Days started before the sun had risen and they didn't end until well after it set.

Now there was only silence and an unnatural gloom that settled in every corner. No one passed her doorstep anymore – and if they did, it was with a sprint in their step and a wary eye, head downcast in repugnance. She couldn't rightly blame them; there was no trust to be had in such trying times. Death had taken residence in their corridor, turning neighbors into strangers and tearing families apart.

Naught but five months ago Caroline had been living a different life; one worth living. She'd been married happily, the dutiful wife of the city's finest cobbler, and mother of seven spirited children. Now she found herself widowed and the mother of one – a son far too old for his seven years.

Donnagán had never had the most exuberant of personalities, but there was no denying the somber air he now carried. A child shouldn't be burdened with such a great loss, but there was nothing to be done for it now – Caroline had tended to the family as best she could, and in the end it hadn't been enough.

Another huff escaped her as she pulled the worn cloth from the water and began wringing it out, twisting until her arms shook with the effort. The water dripped glumly into the basin, splashing droplets over the floor and onto her petticoats. Her task done, she shook the shirt fiercely and draped it over a line hung cattycorner along the far end of the room which was already bowed with clothes.

She could feel eyes watching her, and turned to find Donnagán peering at her with hooded eyes, as though afraid to be caught openly staring at her. Caroline managed a crooked smile, earning a mirrored expression from her son. There was a weariness in his eyes that was unnatural for such a young soul, but he'd lived through more than most twice his age. The knowledge did little to ease her sense of guilt.

Donnagán returned his attention to his studies – it seemed that reading was his solace now, though it hadn't always been that way. Before their life had been destroyed, he'd been more partial to fisticuffs, and always had a bloody nose or bruised eye to show for it. She supposed the change was simply because there was no one left to fight with, but she preferred to think he'd felt remorse for his brash ways.

The Holy Bible sat propped up at the table, parchment and lead pen before Donnagán as he carefully copied verses down. He would pause every few minutes to shake his head fiercely, sending dark curls flying every which way.

"Donny, what am I to do with you?" Caroline chuckled, taking in his wild tangle of hair. It seemed that no matter how often she queued it, it always managed to shake loose and hang about his eyes, giving him a feral look. "That's enough for now. Finish and we'll tidy you up," she said, wiping her hands against her apron as she headed towards the bedchamber.

Donnagán was well practiced to the ritual and dropped his pencil without word, closing the Bible with a little more reverence before clambering out of his chair and hurrying to follow her. He'd always been independent, even as a babe, but as of late he was prone to trail her like a bloodhound. He was just as frightened as she, and the sudden lack of companionship was likely quite a shock to a child used to always vying for space.

Donnagán brushed past her, climbing onto the edge of the bed, and was sitting patiently by the time Caroline had pulled her wood-toothed comb from the wardrobe.

"Mum, when can we take down the flag?" a faint voice asked.

Caroline tried to hide her grimace, though she was sure it hadn't gone unnoticed. The council had made any household containing the plague hang a white flag outside the door, as a means of warning the healthy to keep their distance.

"It won't matter now; we won't be here long." She avoided meeting his eyes; she could feel the weight of his gaze and knew she couldn't bear to meet the pain in those black eyes.

Sense told her to flee – to escape the death and despair at any cost, but she knew to a child, abandoning their home was nothing short of betrayal. Especially now that all they had left was each other and their home – where husband and father, children and siblings had spent their last days before giving in to the sickness.

"It will be better once we can get out," she continued, straightening her skirts as she sat behind her son. "We'll have fresh food and clean clothes – ones that fit." She gave a tug at his weskit, which was beginning to wear through and was slightly large for his narrow shoulders. Donnagán twisted from her grasp, grimacing, though Caroline didn't need to see his face to know it.

She frowned, taking a lock of his hair instead and began loosening a knot with her fingers, if only to give herself an excuse to be closer. Caroline shook her head, pulling away – it was dangerous enough having him with her now; to be so close could well mean his death.

Trying a different tactic, she went on, "We can visit with our new neighbors and you can go to school and get a proper learning," Caroline assured, sinking the comb in his thick mane, trying to ignore the tears which blurred her vision.

She looked away from the angry red sores dotting her arms, concentrating instead of the unruly mop of ebony hair which refused to submit to her attempts to tame it. It was a cruel lie, speaking of new beginnings, but she knew she had to keep his spirits up, lest he lose whatever faith he still had.

Donny was well yet, but if he stayed much longer, he'd be in the same way as her and nearly every other poor soul littering the Closes.

"I don't want to leave," Donnagán whined, cringing as Caroline pulled at a particularly nasty snarl. Her Donny was by far the most bull-headed of her lot, and she knew he wouldn't be pleased with her decision. Still, his happiness wasn't near as vital as his health.

"Nor do I, but it doesn't matter what we want," she snapped. "You think your father would want us to stay and get sick like the rest of them? To be aching and pockmarked, your fingers and toes going black and falling off, and to get bled every hour – that's no way to die, Donnagán."

She regretted saying it as soon as the words left her mouth. Her Donny was a tough lad, and though he didn't cry, his body went taut as he ducked away from her, slipping halfway off the bed before Caroline could catch him.

"As cagey as a bird, Donny. Here now," Caroline said, reaching forward to pull him back, spinning him around to face her. "Never mind that. Times are hard, I didn't mean it." She continued to mutter soothing nothings, holding him close to her, aware that this time could be the last.

"That's why we have to leave. To keep you well."

"There's nowhere to go," Donnagán said, his voice muffled by her shoulder.

"Course there is," she chided, gripping him by the shoulders, holding him an arm's length away. "We can go anywhere. You'll be grown soon, and you're old enough to pull your weight now. A little time and hard work and you can do anything you set your mind to."

Her statement was met with an incredulous look, and she couldn't help but feel slightly abashed for her optimism. Donnagán had a talent for making people feel exposed, and Caroline could only pity anyone who trifled with him.

"We're not anyone important," he huffed, as though it explained everything. He knew the way of things, whether he agreed with it or not, Caroline wasn't certain.

"That doesn't matter, not a _lick_," she said, lightly rapping his nose with her comb. "Stubborn as you are, you'll do anything you've a mind to."

"But—"

"Have faith, Donnagán!" she cried, torn between amusement and exasperation. "Mind your mother, eh? She's always right."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, smiling slightly as Caroline tousled his hair. He bowed away again, this time to toss his head, grinning apologetically from the gesture.

Caroline sighed, shaking her head, though she knew she couldn't fault him; he had the same unruly mop as his father. Her smile faltered then and she had to clear her throat, looking away briefly as she tried to block out the thought.

Donnagán frowned too, fidgeting before her, but for once he made no effort to leave. A heavy air settled upon them, a stark contrast from the playfulness of a moment ago. Caroline knew she should prepare him for what was to come, but she didn't have the heart to break his once more. He'd been through enough – surely she could let him rest easy just one more night. It was the very least she could give him.

The thought sparked a memory, and Caroline nearly jumped with the revelation. Donny stared at her, clearly baffled, but he didn't say a word. She grinned, leaning forward conspiratorially, and Donnagán's dark eyes gleamed with mischief in return.

"I want you to have something," Caroline said, voice a bare whisper. There was no shame to be had in it, yet she couldn't abate the need for secrecy in her act. Donnagán's eyes lit up with the promise of a gift, though it did little to put her at ease.

She withdrew a chain of beads from the folds of her bodice, letting them sway gently before coiling it in her palm, clutching on to it tightly. "You swear to me, Donnagán Teague, not to be rid of it. No matter how much you might pocket from it, or what sort of fine things you're promised. Do not lose this."

She grasped her son's hand then, laying the rosary in his outstretched palm, forcing his hand shut in emphasis of her statement. Donny stared at his closed fist for a time, frowning all the while. Caroline gave a slight huff, knowing full well the source of his distaste.

"I can't take it," he said, finally looking up to meet her eyes. "It's Rowland's."

"It was Rowland's," she corrected, forcing down a painful knot in her throat. "My father gave it to me when I was married. I was to give it to my eldest son, and now that Rowland and Merwin are in Heaven with the Lord, you're my oldest. It's yours now."

Donnagán contemplated the idea for a moment before giving a stiff nod. Caroline smiled, relieved that he hadn't put up more of a fight, and patted his hand. "Keep it safe – I want it on you at all times, understand?"

"I won't lose it," he muttered, giving her a cross look. Donnagán carefully pulled the rosary over his head, admiring the crucifix before tucking it under his shirt, smoothing his front once he was finished.

"I know you won't," Caroline said softly, forcing a smile. She'd never much cared for his temper, but it did her little good to scold him for it now. He'd need a strong backbone if he was to survive on his own, though a little modesty certainly wouldn't hurt.

"Come now," she said, standing stiffly. "To bed with you. We've a long day tomorrow and you'll need your sleep." Caroline made her way to the headboard and began pulling the corner of the duvet down.

Donnagán still sat at the end of the bed, a sour look on his face. "I'm not tired," he said, glowering at the pillows as Caroline fluffed them.

"No, but you'll wish you'd slept tomorrow." She made her way back to her son, and began wresting his shoes off before he had a chance to complain. "We're going to leave – on a ship."

Caroline cast a sidelong glance at Donny, hoping the news might cheer him. Her children often spent hours at the docks, watching the ships come and go. They'd always been fascinated by the sea, and Caroline knew Donnagán had dreamt of traveling, but she wished the circumstances could've been different.

Donnagán met her with wide eyes, grinning with excitement. "We're going to sail?"

"How else are we to leave?" she asked, trying to keep her voice passive. She hardly shared his enthusiasm, though she had yet to tell him the truth. She didn't want his last night at home to be spent arguing and sulking – he would have the rest of his life to hate her.

Caroline pulled his weskit off, then shooed him to the floor, prompting him to finish undressing. Donny unlaced his breeches, kicking them to the wall as he straightened his shirt once more. He looked at her expectantly, but Caroline simply scooped up his clothing and began folding them neatly.

"Now sleep," she said when he still hadn't moved. "I don't want you up all night fussing over it."

Donnagán fumbled with the covers, but after a moment be managed to slip under them, snuggling back against his pillow obediently. "What about you?" he asked, still watching as she set his folding clothes in the wardrobe.

Caroline slowly met his eyes, panic rising as she tried to understand what he was asking. Surely he didn't know her plan? "What do you mean?" Her voice sounded strained, and she struggled to keep from biting her lip.

"Aren't you excited?"

She couldn't stop from sighing in relief. "Of course I am," she said simply. "But I need to stay up and pack. We can't just leave without a thing in the world." She'd already made a small bag with a shift of clothes, a bit of food, and coin enough to buy passage, but she wanted to give herself enough time to prepare some sort of a speech, although she doubted it would do her much good in the end. There was no persuading against loyalty.

Caroline crossed the room once more, bending over to brush Donny's hair back as she placed a kiss on his brow. "And don't you try to stay up chittering away at me," she said quietly. "I want you abed, quiet and still. You'll have had your fill of me tomorrow." She turned to blow out the candle, but a hand caught her skirt, giving it a quick tug.

"Say my prayers with me?"

Caroline smiled wearily, unable to resist. He was old enough to know them by now, but it had always been a struggle getting him to say them alone. He had a shyness about him that kept him from speaking unless he had a mind to.

"All right." She hitched up her skirt as she kneeled, folding her hands before her. Donnagán sat up, following her prompt as he closed his eyes, hands folded under his nose.

Caroline cleared her throat before beginning, allowing the familiar words to spill forth. They'd been using the same prayer since the illness started, and she was determined to continue until the end.

"Watch Thou, dear Lord," she said, continuing only once she was assured by Donny's faint murmur.

"With those who wake, or watch, or weep tonight,

And give Thine angels charge over those who sleep.

Tend Thy sick ones, Lord Christ.

Rest Thy weary ones.

Bless Thy dying ones.

Soothe Thy suffering ones.

Pity Thine afflicted ones.

Shield Thy joyous ones."

Here Caroline paused, opening her eyes briefly to catch a glance at her son. His eyes were still closed in benediction, as he chanted in time with her. Her heart skipped a beat before thrumming painfully against her chest.

"All for Thy Love's sake. Amen," they finished together, each voice a bare whisper.

Caroline smiled again, tears welling in her eyes. She hurriedly stood, stooping to snuff the candle out. She pressed another kiss on Donny's cheek, helping him settle back down.

"Goodnight, love. Sleep," she whispered, one hand stroking his temple gently. "Dream of tall ships and warm sands."

---

_To read more of Madam_Pudifoot's fics, visit her profile page! _


	15. Tia Dalma's Mum

**Written by**: _mrs. tina marina-funfunfun_  
**Beta**: _FreedomOftheSeas_

_**Eternity**_

---

She did not know what to live for without a daughter.

She loved every moment of motherhood. This certainly wasn't it, this gnawing pain at the inside of her emotions. Without a daughter, she was not a mother.

She remembered looking into the child's eyes for the first time, the softness brimming with love. As the girl aged, she developed an astuteness that could appear and disappear as she liked, but that softness was always reserved for her mother.

As time passed, she watched her girl age into a fine child. She was not much older than such, perhaps sixteen or so, when men--wicked ones that reeked of death and disease had come and taken the daughter from her family; dragged her from her sobbing mother with no pity in their actions, no sympathy.

The world seemed to close in on that day. Her daughter was only a distant memory, and motherhood had seemed to leave with her. The mother, to be brief, was lonely.

---

Years passed, slow but bearable with the thought that, in a short time, her daughter would return. She never had, but her mother made sure to check the horizon each morning, nothing more than a filmy gray smear in the mass of sea and sky.

Was it sad that her mother had never seen a bright sun or felt the salty wind upon tanned arms? She did not miss such, for you cannot miss what you never had, but she instead let her heart ache for the only thing she had ever lost—her daughter.

She was tempted, once, only once, to leave the island, which seemed too familiar and too empty, but realized she had no way of doing so. They were a private people, a people harboring a secret that the universe has deigned to hand to them without asking if they wanted to see no more of the world than a quivering mass of vegetation—a fate her daughter spat at and abandoned.

It took the absence of a daughter for a mother to realize there was an Earth beyond the trees that waved of their own accord, beyond the dark looks of betrayal that her very family gave her. What initially seemed abandonment was actually a gift.

Profound emotion was otherwise impossible for those who aged one year for every one hundred; they were wooden and unfeeling with the numbing of time. Her pain proved to be all that set her apart from the rest, all that gave her hope as well as despair.

---

When something appeared on the edge of the sea and sky, her heart nearly stopped altogether. More intruders, though she did not approve of the cynical way that the others called them that. They could know her daughter; they could _have_ her daughter.

The mother was the only one who approached the men with hope. Her hand stretched to the man in the lead, fingertips grazing his cheek.

She felt how fragile he was, and feared she would break him, drawing her hand back suddenly. Bones that could break and stay broken, skin that was burnt by sun and ripped by blades—this was the world that her daughter had left for?

The man had eyes that bore into her, eyes that were far stronger than she had imagined those of the weak, of the outside. She could see how her daughter might fall into the face of this stranger and delay her return. She took a cautious step back, closer to the trees and the protection they offered.

His face in half of a smile, he took her hand in his, various trinkets on his person making soft clicking noises, his palm calloused against her smooth one. He spoke in a language she did not find hard to understand—though it was different then that of the last intruder, the one who stole her child in the first place.

He seemed to recognize her, though she knew not how.

It hit her in a wave of nausea, her body pulled violently in the directions of excitement, disbelief, and terror all at once. He did know her daughter. Had studied her face long and hard, if he was able to find their subtle resemblances; the setting of the brow at a sign of trouble, the length of fingers and the pale half moons on wide nails.

She whispered the question, not perfectly in his language but close enough. "Ya knew my…my Tia?"

"I knew 'er," he said softly. "Tia Dalma was wicked, an' bloody helpful, by the by, in leading us to this place." He held out some sort of device in his hands, a spinning red arrow enclosed in a box of wood, an arrow that slowed but did not stop until it was pointing dead at her.

She looked up from the odd little box straight into his eyes. They wanted something now.

"Ya 'ave de knowledge—ya've 'eard of de wata's," she said, her voice low, as the others watched from the safety of the trees. They made no moves to stop her, so she took a step closer to the man.

"Aye." He shifted as she shuddered, suddenly chilled. "Look, these fine gentlemen—" he gestured to the raggedy individuals behind him.

She looked at them, and noted that her daughter most certainly was not to be found.

"These fine gentlemen," he continued, "have looked long, and hard, and are finally so close they can _smell_ the treasure inches from their grasp." He ran a rough hand down her arm, trailing off suggestively. "As can I."

"Will ya take me to 'er?" She began to breathe heavily as the stranger's face broke into another smile. Had he ever stopped? When had his face relaxed back into melancholia? But there was an edge to this smile.

"I can't say I can," he drawled, keeping his smile. "Men far before me time had their way with her, an' was only there for some of the time."

"But, I loved that time," he continued, closing the small distance that was left between them. "An' I can show you what she saw… You're just as beautiful as your sister, I must admit."

The mother shrugged off his grasp. "My daughta," she said. "My _chile_."

Rather than retreat, the man gripped her arm tighter. "So it's true," he said, hanging onto her arm for dear life, not sure what to do with himself. "The Fountain."

She looked at him, and the slackness that had taken his jaw, leaving it hanging slightly open. She nudged it closed with a sly look in her eye that closely resembled Tia Dalma.

"Show me 'er life," she proposed, "An' I will bring ya back. Ya will 'ave earned it, den. Live foreva, if you can bear de thought." She could sense the others stiffen, but she did not care, she would gladly give anything that would bring her closer to her daughter, even if her daughter was no more.

He licked his lips. "I can bear it," he said, trying to convince his own skeptical brain. "But me crew…" Though his voice was low, they seemed to hear as well, their looks darkening as they watched his hand on her arm carefully, noted her fingers grazing his chin.

"Dem as well," she promised carelessly. "If dey proves to me, dey can drink." Her voice was earnest, and he nodded.

"We have an accord, then," he said, placing his arm protectively over the woman's shoulders.

She looked to be about ten years his junior, but he knew she had centuries of wisdom in her youthful frame, untouched by the harsh reality of the rest of the world.

The rest of the island did nothing, powerless to stop her from leaving if she saw fit to do so. They were guardians, not warriors. Mother taking after child--a strange, backwards logic.

The mother let him lead her back to his ship. He would learn infinite amounts from her, she would see to that, and, if he properly introduced her to the woman her daughter became, she would reward him further. Give him the chance to become what he was; finally, the immortal Captain Jack Sparrow.

She interrupted his thoughts of eternity, her grip tight on the crook of his elbow. "Eterna' life be fickle," she mused. "Very tricky—n'matta how witty ya tink ya are."

"You really are her mother," he murmured.

She smiled with a softness in her eyes.

A memory.

---

**Tina's A/N: My little part of the challenge! First time I've written about this character, and it's through her mum. I guess that's just one good part about this collection.**

**The other great part would, of course, be the lovely ladies that wrote alongside me, namely the Broken Compass regulars, my fellow rabid fans and lovely writers.**

**Special thanks to damsel-in-stress for the spark that lit the fuse in the first place and FreedomOftheSeas for herding us all into formation—not to mention her amazing beta work!**

**---**

_If you'd like to read other fics by __mrs. tina marina-funfunfun__, check out her profile page!  
_


	16. Weatherby Swann's Mum

**Written by: **Geekmama**  
Beta:**_ Hereswith_**  
**

_**~ Beloved ~**_

Weatherby was a middle child, but he had never felt this put him at a particular disadvantage. If he was not as handsome and rakish as George, neither had he constantly been pressed to set aside heedless ways, learn the running of the estate, marry well, and produce an heir with all possible speed. If he was not as indulged as little Henrietta, neither was it his eventual destiny to be imprisoned in corset and skirts and sold in marriage to the highest bidder. His parents were not cruel in expecting such things of their oldest and youngest. It was merely the way of the world. Yet he had been glad to be able to avoid such obligations.

But his life had not been entirely without trials, and one of the greatest was caring too much.

"You worry about them," his mother told him, reaching up to touch his cheek.

"How can I help it? Since Father passed, George has grown wilder and more dissolute by the day. He wastes his substance, ignores the estate. His very health is at risk! I wish you will speak to him. He has no respect for my words at all, but perhaps you can make him see reason."

"How far we have come from the days when we had only small concerns," said Mother sadly. "My dear, I do not flatter myself George would listen to me. He is determined to follow his own path, for good or ill. But I must tell you, I have managed to set aside what might be accounted a small fortune, enough to allow you and Henrietta to live in reasonable comfort for many years, and to dower her when the time comes. And your uncle has offered to sponsor you into government circles, now you have come down from Oxford."

"Mother! I never expected—"

"I know you did not. That is one of the nice things about you, dear." Mother smiled, patting his knee. But the smile faded. "I knew when my little Henrietta came along, so late in life, that I would need to consider ways and means. George was but thirteen then, as you know, but he was already showing signs that he was…"

"Not quite the thing?" Weatherby supplied, rather caustically.

"Sadly unsteady," Mother corrected. "But there was nothing I could do. You know the laws. And your father assured me he would grow out of it, that he was just the same as a young man."

"Father?" exclaimed Weatherby, for his memories of his strict, rather severe father quite precluded the idea of a profligate youth. Weatherby's respect for the man had bordered on terror at times – most particularly when summoned to the library for a private interview after some instance of boyish transgression – and he had modeled his behavior accordingly from his earliest days. Not so George, who had come out of these same sorts of interviews seemingly set on even more outrageous behavior. Weatherby had at first admired him for this, then, as the years passed, thought him foolish. But after one such interview, George had said, "I'll tell you what it is, brother, the old man may beat me, but he _won't win_."

And he'd been right. Their sister had been three years of age when Father had passed on, leaving Mother a widow, and George the head of the family.

"They are—were—very much alike," Mother said, shaking her head, "save that George seems determined to ignore his obligations. I would be quite in despair if it were not for the fact that you and Henrietta will inherit that money I have put aside."

Weatherby picked up his mother's hand and placed a kiss upon it. "Not for many years, I trust," he told her. Too good. Too generous.

*

She died not a year later, on a cold day in February.

The three siblings stood at the graveside together. George's face was hard, unreadable, and their poor little sister clung, white-faced, to Weatherby's hand. When it was over, and they were walking back to the house, George said, "I'm off to the continent, brother." His voice was hard and unreadable, too, and he stopped in his tracks and stared at the house, black crepe festooning the windows and the knocker on the door. He turned to his siblings. "No, can't bear it. I'll stay at the King's Arms tonight."

"George!" exclaimed Weatherby, intending to remonstrate with him, but George cut him off.

"She was the heart of it, and she's gone," he said, simply. "Take care of things for me, will you? My man of business will arrange an allowance for you, and I know you've the money she left." He bent and took up his little sister's hand, and kissed it. "I'll be back one day, chick." He touched her cheek with a careless finger, turned and was off, striding across the brown lawn toward the stable.

Weatherby thought his sister would have run after him, for he knew she loved George more than his staid self. But she did not. She watched for a few moments, then her head drooped, she bit her lip, and tightened her hold on Weatherby's hand.

Poor, poor darling.

He took a deep breath, and said to her, "Well, Harry, my dear. Let's go in, shall we? There will be a fire to warm you, and I daresay cook will have tea and cakes waiting."

~.~

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	17. Will Turner's Mum

**Written by**: soleilpirate  
**Beta**: FreedomOftheSeas

**_Mothers of the Caribbean: Will's Mother_**

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_"When I was a lad in England, my mother raised me by herself. When she died, I came out here, looking for my father. My father, Bill Turner."_

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Maggie Tarentaul loved Bill Turner. That was pure and absolute truth. What she did not love was the sea. To Maggie, the sea was simply a means to an end. It was a way to get from one near place to another, far place. The sea was also wet, and where good, delicious fish came from. That was all.

It was not, for her, a wondrous, living thing of beauty that could enrapture your soul and dazzle your heart. And therein lay the beginnings of their problem.

Bill Turner loved Maggie Tarnetaul, another undeniable truth. She was for him a bit like the sea, beautiful and dazzling and enrapturing. And attainable as well, she agreed to wed him and make him a very happy man. Bill could barely believe his good fortune to have won such a woman. Not only was she beautiful, but sharply intelligent. One of the few women he knew that had learned to read, and in fact, she taught him to read his letters even better. Bill knew himself; a slow, stolid man who was easily content with his lot and dreamed of adventure. For now, Maggie was adventure enough.

Another thing Maggie did not love, was John 'Flying Bird' Teague. The young man Bill began bringing home to dinner after three voyages on a merchant ship was very charming, to be sure. She often laughed at his wit and smiled benignly in the face of his sly, almost innocent flirting with her. Still, her wariness of him was strong, knowing him to have learned sailing as a child, from his father - who just happened to be a legendary pirate. Oh, the scolding Bill endured over that! "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree," Maggie predicted darkly.

But the young man was so earnest, so sincere when he explained to anyone who would listen that he'd left his father's kind of life behind and intended to make his mother proud as a good man. Maggie accepted this, but watched him. Watched him warily, and found ways to question her husband about him when he went on two more voyages, serving on a crew with the lad.

How proud she was of Bill, finding a place with the East India Company! She did not trouble herself as to the lowliness of that place, a simple crewman. Bill might be slow, but he was hardworking and kind, so very kind. This was the quality she prized most in him. With her firm guidance to encourage him to work his way up, Maggie felt confident that Bill could secure their future.

Alas, it was John was worked his own way up, far faster than her sweet Bill. Along with being charming and quick witted, he was also pretty clearly ambitious. "There's talk of him being made officer afore too long," he told her in his thoughtful way.

"And what about you? How close to being right there with him are you, since you're not already?"

At her sharp tone he merely looked at her. Ashamed, Maggie dropped her eyes. She didn't like to hurt his pride, her darling man, no. Bill stroked her pregnant stomach gently. "I know you're all worked up because of the baby's coming. It's natural sweetheart.

"Anyway, the captain asked for crew commendations."

Maggie sat up straighter and stopped eating to stare at him. "You...put John forward, but not yourself, Bill?" She tried to keep her tone even.

He just shrugged and smiled a bit. "Jack deserves it. He-"

"Jack?"

"It's what the men all call him. He's got something about him, Magsweets." The pet name was silly; nonetheless it never failed to make her melt. "Jack gets along with everybody, often he can get the men to pull together in the worst conditions. Lot of 'em would almost follow him over the cap'n. A man like that...well, there ain't many."

Setting aside his plate of food, Bill reached for her and gave her a slow wonderful kiss. They made lazy love, Bill being tenderly solicitous of her swollen belly, and fervently solicitous of her carnal needs.

Their son was born while he was away, serving under Officer John Teague. She showed him the baby, named after him, upon his return. Bill held the little bunting with real pleasure and spent hours scrutinizing the tiny features and playing with the wee fingers.

"Looks just like you, doesn't he?" Maggie was bursting with maternal pride, and more anxious than ever to build a bright tomorrow for her son.

"So he does. But Magsweets, I swear he glows with that same pretty sparkle you've got." Bill chuckled. "Imagine, a woman like you giving good looks to my plain old face."

Maggie went to him, stroked his hair, and whispered love words to him. Later that night, she murmured sweetly to him that perhaps it would be good for him to get experience on a different ship.

News came a few days later, and Bill wandered back from the wharf to tell her about it. John Flying Bird Teague had visited his mother, and returned with a beautiful ship. She was built along the lines of an East Indiaman, and Jack's captaincy was assured.

They sat watching William play in the dirt with a little shovel. "Please Bill! I mean nothing against your old friend Jack, but I want you to get some different experience, is all!"

"You wanted me to get promoted Maggie. Well, Jack's made me an officer. It's good isn't it?" Her poor husband's face was honestly perplexed.

Maggie sighed, wishing she could explain it to herself if not to Bill. "I've just got a terrible feeling, I don't know why."

"Well...we'll see," he murmured. Glancing at him, Maggie saw that he was gazing towards the harbor. Towards the sea, and he had a little smile on his lips. That was the day her heart began to break.

Young John came to the house the night before they were to sail aboard The Wicked Wench. Captain Jack Sparrow, as he now called himself. "Maggie love, what's this I hear about you disapproving of Bill and me running my fine ship together?" He took her hand and kissed it with a devilish quirk of his eyebrows.

Slightly exasperated, Maggie couldn't help a girlish giggle as she pulled her hand free. "None of that now, we all know you've the devil's luck in getting your way."

Jack looked absolutely delighted at this. "Can't help it Maggie. You've got me dazzled." He invaded her space. She could smell his thick long braids, sweet with the spices he regularly transported and salty with the ocean.

"You keep my man out of trouble, you hear me?" Her voice was shrill, and she stopped long enough to calm herself. William was sleeping in the next room; she didn't want to wake the toddler. "I want him to come back to me."

Jack smiled, wide and sincere. "A'course, Maggie my love! Safe and sound, I assure you. This is just a simple run, round the Cape is tricky, but me and your Bill are fine sailors." He tipped an extravagant wink at Bill, sitting silently at the kitchen table. "Picking up African cargo and delivering it to Port Royal, Jamaica. You'll get your man back, as sure as the sun rises in the east."

She believed him, God help her but she believed every word. Her husband was right. There was something about Jack. Even when you knew he was probably up to no good, you wanted to think he wasn't. And you wanted to follow him. Of course, Bill didn't return. And in time even a woman who didn't pay attention to sailor's gossip got to hearing about it. The cargo was dark skinned men, women, and children. The Captain of the Wicked Wench had set them free, and was caught, branded a pirate by his immediate supervisor in the Company, Cutler Beckett, and his ship burned to the waterline.

There was no news of Bill Turner, but Maggie could draw her own conclusions. The crew serving under Captain Sparrow could get a lighter punishment by claiming to have not aided their captain in his madness. But would Bill do that? Oh no! Not her loyal, kind, just a bit slow man, oh not him! He chose to follow Jack, and what's more, he chose the treacherous, unfaithful SEA!

Maggie took ill from severe grief. Neighbors heard her little son crying, and came and nursed her back to health. She recovered in time, but never fully. And in her delirium while sick, she imagined a perfect world wherein her wonderful Bill was still a proper merchant. And Jack Sparrow was just a midshipman who eventually transferred to another ship. Upon regaining her strength, Maggie vowed she would never speak Jack's name again, for William's sake.

She held on as long as she could, while raising her son to be as proper a gentleman as she could manage on her own. She taught him to read, taught him what numbers she herself knew, and carefully nurtured that noble streak of kindness he'd inherited from his father. She taught him that a real man defends those weaker than himself, and that love needed attention to make it grow and keep it strong. She taught him that women were to be treated with respect and care and reverence, and when he was eight, the cough returned.

No medicine could ease it this time, and before a year was over Maggie Turner was failing. Between struggles to breathe, she urged William to go to the Caribbean and find his father, believing once again in the merchant dream she'd once cherished. It wasn't Jack she blamed, really. Dying, she reasoned he was a son of a pirate after all, and couldn't escape his blood.

It never once occurred to her that pirate blood flowed in her young William's veins, as well.

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_If you'd like to read other fics written by soleilpirate__, check out her livejournal page!_

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**General A/N: Thank you all for reading and reviewing the Mothers of the Caribbean collaboration series! We all appreciate your wonderful feedback on each and every one of these one-shots. This is our final chapter, but don't worry, there's more coming your way soon. Be on the lookout for our new series: "_Begun by Blood_" and be sure to add us to your Author Alert! **


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